


Take My Time

by deandatsgay (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Biting, Blowjobs, Bottom Dean, Claiming, Consort Dean Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Dirty Talk, Evil Sam Winchester, F/M, Fingering, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Nipple Play, Riding, Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester, Sibling Incest, Submissive/Bottom Dean, Top!Sam, Toys, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/deandatsgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boy King!Sam is going to take his time with his brother. (SPN Kink Meme fill, boy king!Sam experimenting for the first time with Dean.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the spnkink_meme prompt: Evil teenage boyking Sam (haha, soap opera much, self?) has completed some important evil coming-of-age ritual, and Azazel rewards him with Dean (girl!Dean works too). Sam, who's been a conscientious evil boyking, has had no sexual experience up to this point, and he's absolutely fascinated by all that smooth pale flesh spread out for him like a banquet. Cue gleeful/amoral/scientific curiosity and experimentation and sexual torture -- nothing too extreme, please, some pain play is fine, but this should mostly be about Sam trying to get a rise (ha) out of Dean and exploring him as a sexual object. Non-con or dub-con on Dean's part, of course, but he should enjoy it physically at least.
> 
> Please note the summary and tags. There is age difference/underage (Sam is 16, Dean is 20), non/con-rape, and general darkness. (The character death is John, though; Dean and Sam are alive!)
> 
> Feedback is appreciated; also, please let me know if I need to add more warnings!
> 
> I just really, really, really wanted to write a evil!Sam/Dean non-con fic and this prompt callllled to me. Title taken from the song "So Happy I Could Die" by St. Lady Gaga.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam starts losing his soul when he's nine years old. No one notices.

Sam starts losing pieces of his soul when he’s nine years old.

No one notices.

-

Sam doesn’t even realize he’s changing until about seven months after a demon named Meg possesses him in Oklahoma City. His throat and chest still feel slick and black and he can still taste ash on his tongue when he looks at his father. His belly still sours and burns when he looks at his brother.

Sam is a freak in a family of freaks again. He used to think it was because he was the normal one. But as he flips through pages of stories of demon possessions in John’s journal, he realizes he’s just a freak.

Other people, if they live, don’t feel the buzz of Hell in their veins months after the possession. Other people are happy they've been saved. Other people don’t think about the smoke that clogged and clenched their muscles and wonder...

_What if Meg hadn’t been ripped from his blood and thrown back into the pit? What if the demon, that power, had stayed with him forever?_

_What if part of it was still there?_

-

Sam is eleven when he realizes Meg (blackness, power, Hell) hasn’t been cleansed from his blood at all.

-

Sam’s twelfth birthday is his worst.

John forgets, but Dean covers for him. Dean always covers for him.

It used to shred Sam’s chest to ribbons, John's thoughtlessness for their family, Dean's thoughtfulness to make up for it. Sam used to think John didn’t care for him, for them: that John loved a charred figment and revenge more than the family that was breathing. Sam used to feel sorry for Dean, used to think Dean was a hero for taking care of their family.

Now, Sam just feels anger and disgust.

John cares more about his memories than his sons (barely even his children; just tools). Dean shouldn’t look at John with that awe in his gaze. John is a pathetic excuse for a father, for a human, for a monster hunter. Dean is stronger than him: has sturdier bones and a sturdier spirit, a sturdier (better) heart.

Dean gives Sam the best present he’s ever gotten: an afternoon by himself. John would probably kill both of them if he found out Dean granted Sam eight entire hours of bliss. Sam is out of the door of their motel before Dean can fully get the words out.

Sam feels a thrill of happiness so deep he realizes how numb he’s felt lately. He spends hours at the arcade, playing games he doesn’t like to blend into the crowd. It’s the normalcy he’s been thirsty for but his skin feels too tight, dry and hot.

When he comes back to the motel there is a gap in the curtain and a girl pressing her mouth to Dean’s throat, her skin to Dean’s skin, his body to the mattress. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but Dean’s eyes are wide and wavering with the vulnerability he usually tries so desperately to hide.

The girl is pressing her palms to Dean’s hands, putting them above his head, and Dean’s entire body trembles. His hands twitch as soon as she puts them there, but her own fingers return in an instant, soothing Dean’s fawn shudders.

When she pulls away again, Dean leaves his hands where she placed them.

Sam doesn’t just feel angry: he feels enraged. Watching this girl arrange his brother’s body like a marionette is more infuriating than when Dean follows John’s most asinine commands.(He doesn't examine why the fire burns so much hotter here, now, he just knows it does).

The girl pushes Dean’s shirt under his arms and pinches his nipple. Dean winces. His fingers twitch but his hands are still.

Sam’s own hands clench into fists. He wants to knock that girl, that bitch (he doesn’t think that, she’s not…) off his brother’s hips, and he wants to knock Dean…he doesn’t fucking know where, but he wants it to hurt.

Disgust clenches his muscles, hard and cold. He realizes, suddenly, that Dean isn’t vulnerable. Dean’s _weak_.

He’s weak. Stronger than John but still weak, letting some girl spread him out like he’s her personal blow-up doll, letting some stranger see more of his soul than his own flesh and blood.

Sam runs from the motel until his chest burns as brightly as it did when a monster slithered inside of it. He’s so angry he barely realizes he’s out of breath, barely stops himself before he collapses.

Dean’s been lying to him.

Years - Dean’s been lying to him for years. Dean’s been pretending, sliding smooth around girls, winking and smirking with salacious heat that made Sam roll his eyes and feel too large for his skin. But it’s Dean who gets pushed down, Dean whose body gets covered and touched, and Dean lets it happen. Dean lets them, these girls, these strangers, have parts of him that he never even lets Sam glimpse.

Sam feels betrayed. Stupid. Unsteady.

But most of all, worst of all, Sam feels weak. He’s under the thumb of a broken down man and a boy who lets some unknown girl make him the bitch.

John and Dean are weak, but they’re in control of him.

-

Sam’s thirteenth birthday is his second best.

He is walking out of a diner when a man leaning against the grey brick says, “You’re stronger than them.”

Sam stops. A shrill bell rings as John and Dean push through the glass doors, each carrying a brown sack of leftovers.

When Sam turns around, there is a lingering cloud of cigarette smoke and a faint rotting stench, but the man he’d seen in the corner of his eye has vanished.

“Sammy?” Dean calls.

Sam looks from the empty place against the diner to the Impala. John and Dean are on either side of the car. Dean’s eyebrow is crooked.

Sam rolls his eyes.

“It’s Sam.”

His father and brother tease him on the way back to the motel. He aches, dull and arid, and thinks of the words: _you’re stronger than them_.

The man from the diner is waiting outside the motel, smoking another cigarette. Something flutters in Sam’s chest, in his bones. When John and Dean dig their take-out from the car, the man meets Sam’s gaze and his eyes flicker a sickly yellow.

 _Hello Sammy_.

Sam should be frightened, probably, hearing the man’s voice echo in his head.

Sam’s not frightened. He’s not even angry. He’s annoyed.

 _It’s Sam_ , he thinks. 

The man tips his head. _Hello Sam_.

-

Azazel never lies to Sam. The demon never pretends he isn’t the bad guy. He tells Sam, behind that St. Louis motel, that Sam is destined for greatness. He tells Sam that the weakness of Winchester men, of mortality, won’t stand in the way of Sam’s power, of the ravaging Sam will bring to Heaven and earth.

Before the possession, Sam would have fallen apart. He would have cried and screamed and flung himself into the rivers of Hell to burn the infection inside of him clean. He didn’t want to hurt people. He loved his family. He couldn’t be evil or wrong; he was the good one, the normal one, the tender heart that hated watching anything, even monsters, die.

But it’s been three years, and the sulfur is still stinging, eating him from the inside.

Sam is a little terrified, a little sad, but mostly he’s curious: interested.

Azazel tells him and shows him so much, teaches him how to tap into so much dizzying power, that Sam’s fear and apprehension melt away.

Azazel also never orders him to stay put, keep quiet, never makes him feel ashamed or incapable or freakish, and never calls him Sammy.

Azazel trains him more thoroughly than John; Azazel knows he can handle a hell of a lot more than John thinks he can, because Azazel can see the strength and the will pulsing in whats left of Sam’s soul.

Sam is sending demons to Hell only a few weeks after he turns thirteen.

-

By the time Sam is fourteen, he’s bringing demons back. He’s bringing them up and out and spreading them like seeds wherever John and Dean take him.

It’s after Sam has summoned his eleventh demon, parked outside of a bar in Little Rock, that Dean begins to get suspicious.

Sam cares less and less about hiding his extracurricular activities from his family. They’ll be horrified and disappointed: John will probably try to pump him full of rock salt, Dean will probably throw himself in front of the bullets and stare at Sam, eyes wet and betrayed and shattering pretty.

The idea of their reactions and Azazel’s insistence on following The Plan kept Sam careful. But he realizes that what it all comes down to is the simple fact that John and Dean can’t stop him. No hunter can. No one can.

So Sam isn’t really paying attention when he starts to lazily roll the rocks around his feet with his mind. He hasn’t been able to stretch his powers for hours, cramped in the backseat of the Impala, trapped under his family’s eyes.

Sam doesn’t move them quickly, doesn’t stir any dust, barely even makes any noise, but Dean notices.

It takes Sam a few minutes to notice Dean noticing, and when he does he freezes. The abrupt stop makes it even more obvious that it was Sam making the rocks tumble.

Dean doesn’t say a word. He stares at Sam, eyes stung and brimming with adoration and concern, but he doesn’t say anything. When John comes out of the bar, Dean doesn’t mention it.

Dean’s an idiot for protecting him, has no idea what Sam could do (would do, wants to do) to him. Sam sneers at his brother in his brain while his heart beats frightened girl fast.

-

Not long after Dean gets suspicious, Sam realizes that as annoying and unnecessary and irritating as Dean’s compulsive need to protect him is, that particular trait can also be useful.

Dean keeps John off his back when he starts getting sloppy.

Dean keeps teachers and cops from looking at him too closely.

Dean keeps monsters that are too stupid to smell Sam’s power at bay when Sam can’t flex his skills in front of John.

Sam recognizes the faintest pulse of pride when Dean starts getting stronger. Dean has always thrown himself head first into his job as Sam’s personal savior, but now Dean is consumed. He trains and hunts and trains and hunts and trains, trains, trains.

Sam doesn’t understand how Dean doesn’t realize that working for Sam makes him better than working for John ever has.

“Deano’s a follower,” Azazel tells him one night. “Not like you.”

Sam turns the demon’s words over in his mind as he crouches down to the boy, bound and gagged, leaning against a headstone. The boy has to be around Dean’s age, and without thinking, Sam reaches forward to touch his cheek. He pulls away when he sees how close his fingertips are to dark skin.

“I want Dean to follow me,” Sam says, decides, as he stands, as it occurs to him that there are other things Dean could be useful for.

“He will,” Azazel tells him. “Dean will follow you straight to Hell.”

Pleased, strangely reassured, Sam floats the Dakus dagger to his hand. It’s Dean eyes he sees when the boy’s finally bulge then flutter closed.

-

Months pass and Sam’s power keeps growing.

He needs demon blood less and less, maintains more power for longer periods. He needs Azazel’s direction less and less, because he’s learned how to control his command, has learned how to order and finesse demons who sneer at his mortal blood. He needs Dean the soldier less and less (he starts wanting Dean the brother, Dean the bitch, more and more).

Azazel assigns a demon named Ruby to assist him with training and anything else he needs. But Sam needs less and less.

When Ruby smirks and shakes the golden hair of her vessel, slides into Sam’s lap and offers him her wrist, Sam pushes her to the floor. He keeps his fingers around her arm though, laps the blood while he squeezes her vessel’s bones.

“The only thing I want from you is this,” he tells her once he’s glut himself. He tosses her wrist back to her.

“Saving it for big brother, huh?” she sneers.

It barely takes a twitch of Sam’s brain to fry her from the inside out.

-

Sam isn’t saving anything.

He’s concentrating on his destiny.

He’s focused and he’s diligent, and soon every human and demon will kneel at his feet.

So Sam isn’t saving: Sam is _waiting_.

He’s waiting until his every thought doesn’t pump blood blood hot power blood blood. He’s waiting until he doesn’t have to devote every moment and movement towards his training and planning.

He’s waiting until he has the time to make Dean fall apart for him slowly, thoroughly, completely. He’s waiting until he has the time to learn both of their bodies.

He’s waiting until he has the time (all the time in the world) to teach Dean that Sam’s orders are the only ones he will follow, that Sam is the only person he will follow, that Sam is the only person he will die and live and kill and spread his legs for.

-

A few months after Sam’s fifteenth birthday, Azazel tells him Hell needs the soul of a Righteous Man: the soul of a Winchester.

“The Righteous Man must damn himself willingly,” Azazel says.

Sam snorts. He understands the power behind a soul willingly damning itself - he's a living example of the potency -  but he doesn’t understand how John or Dean could qualify, even in demon eyes, as righteous.

John has raised his children to be murders. Dean moves saturated in gluttony and lust; he indulges in sin and slaughters anything his daddy tells him to.

“Bring them to us, Sam. Lead them to Hell.”

Sam nods, but he agrees only because he has been planning on dragging the Winchester line to the pit with him anyway.

He doesn’t tell Azazel Hell can have John because he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t tell Azazel that he’s keeping Dean.

Hungry demons can dig their tendrils and their smoke into John's soul, but Dean’s soul is off limits: it belongs to Sam, and he isn’t going to share it anymore.

-

Sam trains every day. When he isn’t training, he’s planning, strategizing, learning. He’s diligent and dedicated and exceeds even Azazel’s expectations.

The only time he allows himself to break, to slack, is when Dean picks up a girl.

He watches Dean play bitch for fragile boned, red lipped drudges. None of them deserve the way Dean melts as easy and inviting as sin beneath them. He wants Dean to harden, to push the girls off his lap and square his shoulders, shield himself from the touch of anyone else.

But Dean is weak, and Sam doesn’t wish for impossible things. Dean wouldn’t push easy pleasure away; Sam doesn’t think he’s capable of it. John has denied him softness and goodness for so long, Dean is as hungry for affection as Sam is for blood and bones and power (for Dean, his souldbodymind, everything).

Dean is beautiful in his weakness, though. The broken lilt of his body and voice when he squirms to be still and silent, the way his soul flickers and burns at any kind touch, is enough to make the remaining shreds of Sam’s own soul ache with jealousy and anger and want.

Sam reconsiders his mission to cleanse fragility from Dean’s heart. Dean is a dutiful soldier despite his vulnerability, after all, and Sam has never seen anything as lovely as Dean’s easy and gentle submission to pleasure.

-

After Sam kills Ruby, he goes through a parade of demon servants, drinking and burning each of them until Azazel re-introduces him to Meg.

Sam trains with her, drains her, for almost seven months. He feels something almost sentimental when he swallows her blood, and it reminds him of those warm, rolling waves he used to feel for his brother, for his father.

When Sam does kill her, he thanks her.

-

Years of planning and training and pretending come down to a sickness Sam whispers into Dean’s blood a few days before Sam’s sixteenth birthday.

They’re in Oklahoma again, hunting a werewolf this time. Dean is researching the best dive bars in the nearest city when he’s supposed to be gathering information about their target. John lectures Dean, shouts and growls, and Sam decides it’s time.

Sam’s ready for his throne, ready for John to take his place on the rack, ready for Dean to take his place in Sam’s army, in Sam’s bed.

Dean lies pale and trembling with sweat on a hospital bed. He’s still beautiful, the most beautiful thing Sam has ever seen. Sam almost brushed a kiss to Dean’s temple earlier, when John stepped out for coffee, but he knew he would’ve wanted more, and it hadn’t been the time or place.

John sits shaking on a thread of grief and regret. He buries his head, his tear stung eyes, onto Dean’s arm.

Sam rests his hand on John’s shoulder.

“We can’t let him die,” Sam says, watering his voice with fear. “You can’t – Dad, there’s got be something we can do. You can do. You’ve got to save him.”

“I’m trying, Sammy, I’ve – ” John shakes. He tries to stop the tremble in his voice, tries to be strong for his son, but Sam already knows there is no strength left in him. “I’ve looked. I’ve called Bobby, I’ve talked to – and there’s nothing. There’s – ” John’s throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s something,” Sam reminds him softly, trying to not to roll his eyes or bring his fist to John himself. If John was any kind of father, he would have already given his soul for Dean’s life. “Dad, you know – ”

“We don’t make deals with demons, Sammy,” John growls.

Sam’s fingers twitch on his shoulder.

-

In the end, of course, John Winchester is nothing but a hypocrite. He trades his soul on a dusty crossroad to keep Dean alive.

Sam makes Azazel promise John will learn that his deal was in vain.

-

Sam’s sixteenth birthday is his best.

He is recognized, finally, as the Boy King. He is given his army. He is given his thanks for bringing the souls of John and Dean Winchester to the pit, for hooking John to the rack and bringing Dean to his knees.

He is finally rewarded with the only prize worth earning: his brother.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam starts unwrapping his reward.

There are pockets of Hell that can be shaped if the power tempering it is strong enough, but the screams and echoes of blades slicing souls still brush the dimensions of those spaces. They are still  _Hell._

After the coronation, the final ritual, Sam and Dean go back topside. Azazel has their bodies waiting for them in the manor of his current vessel. 

Sam comes to in the study. Azazel is waiting for him with a glass of brandy, but Sam can’t be bothered to drink a sip. His brother is waiting for him in the east wing of the house, and Sam is eager to unwrap his well-earned reward.

-

Dean is bound, ankles and wrists, to a cherry wood, four-poster bed. A small ball gag, the same black leather as the cuffs, stretches Dean’s plush lips apart. 

Sam finds the whole display a little too cliché, a little too gaudy for his tastes (he prefers sleek and modern to heavy and Victorian), but Dean’s skin glows against the burgundy sheets, shines underneath the black leather of the cuffs, and it’s just for Sam. Every inch of that skin, every sweet, pretty bit of it, is for Sam: to touch, to taste, to explore.

Then Sam senses the magic flowing through bonds, holding Dean in place, and frowns. He wants Dean to soften and shudder and submit for Sam’s flesh, not for the blood magic tainting the leather around Dean’s wrists. He wants to press Dean into the luxurious wine red sheets while Dean holds his trembling limbs still, like he has done for countless girls before, while Dean spreads himself completely for Sam. 

With a thought, the cuffs and gag disappear.

Dean, who is still foggy and weak from the way his body and soul have been whipped about today, struggles into a sitting position. His bare chest is heaving and gleaming in the low light. 

“Sammy,” he slurs, voice deep and ragged. “Sammy, wha - what the Hell –  the fuck are we? Where’s Dad? Where – ” 

Dean tries to sit up, tries to move forward, as he speaks. At the sound of John’s name, Sam uses a slap of power to press him back into the bed. 

“What the – fuck, Sammy, what – ”

“Dean,” he says, slow and sharp, shutting Dean’s mouth and stilling Dean’s struggles. 

Dean’s eyes widen and water, so frightened and so pretty, as he realizes it’s Sam that’s holding him down.

“I know you’re probably a little disoriented right now,” Sam soothes as he stalks towards the bed. “You’ve gone from your death bed to Hell to earth again. It’s been a very busy day for you.” 

Dean narrows his eyes at the tone, and Sam grins. He can’t help but tease his brother now that he has as much time as he wants to do it. 

“I’m gonna give you a little advice to help keep you out of trouble while you adjust to some new things.” Sam sinks down beside Dean on the bed. “It’s gonna be in your best interest not to talk about Dad. Don’t ask about him. Don’t even think about him.”

Sam brings his hand up, barely grazing his fingertips down Dean’s jaw. Dean’s skin is warm, slightly damp, as is his hair. Azazel must have had some of Sam’s servants clean Dean’s body while they were away. Sam will get their names, flay them later for touching what every demon knows is the Boy King’s property. 

Dean tries to flinch away from Sam’s fingers. His full mouth twists and curls as he attempts to spit words in Sam’s face. 

“He’s not your concern anymore, Dean,” Sam breathes. “I’m the only one you need to think about anymore, okay? I’m the only one you need to listen to. The only one you need to protect. Do you understand?” 

Sam relaxes his hold on Dean enough for his brother to nod, but Dean continues staring at him in groggy horror and confusion. 

“I’ll give you another tip,” Sam says, annoyance a faint, dull ache in his brain. “If you don’t want me to make you do something, you should do it first.”

Glaring, Dean nods, limp and shaky but  _obedient_. Sam’s body burns. 

“Good,” Sam praises sincerely.

Sam releases the power clogging Dean’s mouth. 

“ _C-Christo_ ,” Dean pants. “ _Christo_ ,  _christo_ ,  _chris-_ ”

“Not a demon, Dean,” Sam smirks. “It’s just me in here. Just Sammy.” 

“N-no,” Dean denies weakly. He tries to move his limbs, but Sam only needs a gentle thought to keep Dean’s shaky body from fighting. “S-Sammy? No, you’re not, you’re – not Sammy, not – ”

“I am,” Sam assures him firmly.

Dean’s mouth slacks again, like he is going to continue arguing, and Sam snaps the ball gag back between Dean’s lips. Dean looks confused, gasping around the gag, then his eyes flicker with recognition and rage. 

“I’m not really in the mood to argue about this right now.” Sam grins. “It’s still my birthday, Dean, and you haven’t given me my present.” Dean shivers. “Don’t worry, big brother. I’ll show you exactly what I want.” 

Sam stands to slide off his tan jacket and over-shirt. He toes off his shoes and sits to pulls his socks off, pointedly keeping his eyes off of Dean.

As greedy as Sam is for his brother, as much as he wants to drink in Dean’s every reaction, Sam has to start Dean’s training now. One of the first things Dean needs to learn is that Sam is the Alpha here, is in control; that everything that happens to Dean now, including who looks at him and when, is up to Sam. 

Dean is watching Sam with glazed over terror. Sam deepens the relaxation of Dean’s muscles, calms the anxiety rushing through Dean’s veins, but doesn’t congeal Dean’s thoughts. Dean’s mind needs to be lucid, needs to be awake enough to soak up Sam’s lessons, but Sam needs Dean’s body to be the sweet, weak, beautiful thing Sam knows it truly is.

Sam has been waiting for this moment for years. He’s thought of it, and he knows, step by delicious step, what he is going to do. 

Sam takes a moment to just stare. He’s seen Dean more naked than this, twisted and trembling and hard, and he’s been entranced. Having Dean spread out for him so completely, so close, is infinitely more enthralling though, and Sam is fascinated by the taut stretch and soft beauty of Dean’s body, spread loose and open and all for him. 

Sam runs his fingertips over Dean’s damp hair. It is soft spun, dark gold under his skin, the strands silkier than he had imagined. Sam moves his palm over the top of Dean’s head, petting him and feeling his hair, his skull, his warmth. As his hand continues stroking Dean, continues learning Dean in this new, intimate way, he leans down, skimming his nose through the soft strands. He breathes in deep.

Sam is going to explore every inch of his brother. He is going to explore his own desires, learn exactly what he wants and likes, then teach it to Dean. 

“You smell good,” Sam whispers into Dean’s skin as he moves his nose, brushing Dean’s face until he tucks it into the point behind Dean’s ear.

Sam shifts so he can look into his brother’s face. Dean is still disoriented, still scared. Sam brings his other hand to Dean’s chest. He presses his fingertips onto Dean’s collarbone and his palm onto Dean’s pectoral. With a final stroke to Dean’s head, Sam trails his fingers down. He brushes across Dean’s forehead, runs his thumb over Dean’s sweating eyebrows. Dean’s skin is as soft and sweet as his hair. 

Dean’s lashes flutter as he tries to blink and shake Sam’s wandering hand away. A pulse of power stills Dean’s eyes. Sam grazes his fingers gently, gently, over Dean’s pretty eyelashes. He repeats the movement on the other side, the delicate hairs almost tickling the pads of his fingers. 

As soon as Sam allows Dean to move his eyes again, his brother glares at him with so much disgust and poison Sam sighs. 

“You’re always so sweet for those little sluts of yours,” Sam says, soft and disappointed. “You spread it so easy for them. Why are you being so sour with me?” 

Sam doesn’t let Dean answer. He cups his brother’s face, burning with humiliation and indignation, and leans forward. He kisses Dean’s forehead, first, then his temple, his eyelids, the sharp rise of his cheekbone, the strong jut of his jaw. The gag vanishes as Sam moves to press his lips to Dean’s plush mouth.

It’s a chaste kiss: Dean’s lips are closed and Sam keeps the pressure light. It’s nice, for Sam’s first, but it’s not what he’s been craving. 

“Open your mouth a little,” Sam orders gently. All it would take would be a blink of power and he could have Dean’s mouth any way he wanted, but he wants Dean to follow him. Follow him into Hell, into battle, follow his commands. “Dean,” he says warningly when Dean glares. “Remember what I told you? My tips for survival?” 

Sam forces Dean’s jaw achingly, obscenely wide. The sight of that hot, plush wet mouth, spread just for Sam – the sight of where Sam’s fingers and tongue and cock are going to go soon – makes Sam twitch in his jeans, and he realizes how hard he is. Dean’s mouth and jaw must be burning from the stretch, and Sam is almost tempted to keep him this way. 

Sam traces Dean’s mouth with his fingers. He presses into the pink flesh, almost sighing at the softness.

“You can either do what I say, or I can make you. And trust me, Dean, you’re probably not going to like my methods.” 

Dean’s eyes are glittering with anger and tears when Sam lets his muscles relax. Sam can’t deny the thrill that heats his skin: he may be a King now, but he’s still a little brother, too, and annoying Dean, getting him to break his cool, will always be one of Sam’s favorite pass times. 

“Now,” Sam says, leaning in so his breath puffs warm over Dean’s lips. “Be good a good bitch for me,” – and that certainly gets a rise from Dean, green eyes flashing fire – “Like you’ve been for all those whores, and open. Your. Mouth.” 

Dean glares, shakes with fear, and does as he’s told. Dean drops his mouth wide, not as wide as Sam had pushed it but it still gapes, so open and pink Sam wants to groan at the sight of it. 

Instead, Sam laughs, a little breathless and a lot teasing. “Open your mouth just a little. Unless you’re that eager to get my dick in your mouth?” Sam grins as Dean flushes. “Are you, Dean? Ready to get my cock between your pretty lips? Think you can get me to skip the foreplay just because you’re that desperate to suck me?” 

Dean lowers his top lip, making a small gap.

Perfect, Sam thinks. 

“Better,” he says, because Dean doesn’t need to get any cockier than he already is.

“-ammy,” Dean rasps softly. “Wh-why, Sam, wha – ” 

“You don’t understand,” Sam soothes, stroking Dean’s right cheek. “I know. You really can’t figure out what I’m doing, what I’m going to do.” 

And Dean can’t. His denial is twisting in his bones. Sam can feel his brother clinging desperate and pitiful to the hope that somewhere in this boy who is pinning him to the bed is his good little brother. 

It’s so sweet; adorable, really. Sam’s dick pulses, hard. He’s wanted this Dean, this frail, beautiful Dean, so vulnerable and so pretty. So fragile and so lovely and it's all for Sam now. All for him. _Just_ for him.

Sam runs his thumb over both of Dean’s lips. He dips it inside, thumbing a molten wet cheek, and shudders. Dean’s mouth feels  _good_. 

It’s going to feel even better under Sam’s lips and tongue. Sam closes the space between them eagerly. The kiss is a little wetter, so much hotter, than the first. Sam’s chest pulses like it hasn’t in years, alive with want and something he remembers as joy, glee - maybe love. 

Sam runs his tongue over Dean’s lips before slipping inside, licking over Dean’s teeth. When he finally brushes the tip over Dean’s own tongue, warm and wet, Sam groans. 

Dean is breathing heavy when Sam pulls back.

“You’re not my handler, Dean. You’re not in control of me anymore. You’re mine, now. And yeah, Dean,” Sam huffs, reading Dean’s thoughts as he shifts to press his erection into Dean’s hip. “In  _that_  way. In every way. You’re still my brother, still the only one I trust, but now you’re  _my_  bitch. Only mine.” 

“ _No_ ,” Dean says, adamant and immediate and desperate. His voice is wet and when Sam pulls back, he can see Dean’s cheeks are wet, too, pretty tears welling fat in his eyes and rolling hot down his face. “ _No_.” 

“No what? No, this isn’t me? No, this isn’t what you want? No, you aren’t gonna lay back and spread ‘em for me?” 

Sam pushes against Dean again, closing his eyes and moaning. He never realized it would feel this good to touch Dean like this: even after all the times he’s thought about it, he never imagined he would  _feel_  so much (he hasn’t felt much of anything in such a long time.) It’s a rush Sam never knew he could have, and Sam is eager, excited, for more. 

“You are, Dean. You’re gonna be so good for me, better than you were for those bitches you let push around.” 

Sam kisses Dean again, harder this time. It’s not better, necessarily, than the previous kiss, but it’s different and it’s good, pressure rougher, burning Sam deeper.

“You’re gonna give me everything. Even if I have to take it now, Dean, sooner or later you’re gonna be giving it up just for me.” 

Sam keeps Dean still by settling his body on Dean’s hips and sinking his power heavy into Dean’s bones. He spends what feels like hours, days, kissing Dean every way he’s imagined. Soft again; wet and messy and with his tongue so far in Dean’s mouth his brother nearly choked; hard with enough pressure to bruise. He slides his teeth over Dean’s bottom lip, then captures it, increasing the intensity of the bite experimentally. More tears spring in Dean’s eyes when Sam feels the barest tang of blood gush against his teeth. 

Sam groans. Demon blood is heady but tainted, bitter: Dean’s blood is smooth and rich and obscenely hot. It’s  _delicious_. 

Dean makes pained, pretty noises as Sam runs his tongue over the small wound, then sucks the lip back into his mouth. The kiss must sting, now, and as much as Sam likes the hurt little breaths Dean huffs, Sam wants Dean to enjoy this: he wants Dean’s body to enjoy it, at least, until his brain catches up. 

He licks the tear again and it heals. Dean makes a startled noise. Sam ignores it in favor of more exploratory kisses. 

Finally Sam finds the rhythm, the depth and pressure he wants for now. As time passes, he can feels his brother start to harden, start to get thick and hot between his legs. He can also feel Dean’s mortification at his muggy body’s reaction. 

Sam nips at his brother’s swollen bottom lip as he presses their hips together.

“That’s it, Dean. Feels good, doesn’t it, being your baby brother’s bitch?” 

Dean makes a noise of protest, tries to squirm away, but Sam just tightens the hold of his power. 

Sam rubs them together, and is absolutely fascinated by how amazing something so simple feels. He peers down their bodies, mesmerized by the way their bulges press and move together. 

He keeps kissing Dean until his lips tingle and his cock feels painfully, pathetically full. 

There is so much more Sam wants to do: taste every morsel of skin laid out for him, lick Dean’s legs and thighs until his big brother cries and begs to come. 

Dean’s body feels too incredible, though, for Sam to hold back much longer. The pressure is building, familiar and hot in his gut: Sam hasn’t done this with anyone else, but he’s done it himself, got himself off after watching Dean let some girl ride him stupid, jealousy and want heavy in his hands. He used to think of taking Dean’s mouth, first, but then he’d decided on Dean’s hands, calloused from years of fighting and always so gentle and careful with Sam. 

Now that Sam’s in the moment, though, things are more intense than he had anticipated. Dean’s body, so warm and pliant, is infinitely better than his own shaking hand. The unexpected pleasure makes Sam feel…free, spontaneous. There are so many ways he can use his brother’s beautiful body. 

Fuck. Sam really can do anything. He doesn’t even have to follow his own rules. Dean is his: whatever he wants, whenever he wants, Dean is his.

Sam keeps grinding his hips into his brother’s, keeps pushing their denim and dicks roughly together. He captures Dean’s mouth again and goes back to the hard, teeth gnashing kisses that scorched him earlier. 

Sam loses track of time, space; he loses track of everything that isn’t Dean's body under his. Pleasure buzzes in his muscles like demon blood, molten and toomuchnotenough. Every fiber of his being is tingling, alive for the first time. 

He can almost understand why Dean always gave into pleasure so easily. 

Dean is shuddering beneath him, but Sam’s power won’t let him do much more. His body still feels good, though, so good. Sam’s throat feels dry and his chest feels like it is going to beat itself apart. His tongue feels like it is directly linked to his cock, like the nerves got crossed, because when he fucks his tongue back into Dean’s mouth, when he presses hard and fast and deep, it’s like he’s thrusting his dick into Dean’s throat instead of just his tongue. 

He comes with a deep, heavy groan, pressing so tightly and roughly into his brother he thinks he’ll find bruises on Dean’s hips when he explores them, sans jeans and boxers, later. 

Sam rolls his body off of his brother’s. He’s panting, muscles loose and trembling, and he feels sated yet hungrier than ever. Orgasms have never ripped so much pleasure or energy from him before. 

Sam’s head lulls lazily to the side. He blinks as his pleasure fades and his brother comes into view. Dean has his eyes screwed tightly shut. His entire body is trembling, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. His fingers twitch. Still breathing heavily, Sam shifts to his side, watching Dean’s stomach heave as his brother gasps for air. Sam smirks as he trails his gaze lower, catching on the bulge in Dean’s jeans. 

He’s seen Dean hard before, seen Dean’s dick full and flushed, but somehow, this is feels new. That heavy, hot twitch in his brother’s jeans isn’t for some random, isn’t for some stranger, some slut: it’s for Sam. Only for Sam. 

There is a spark in Sam’s spine, the same dizzying buzz he felt when he first realized the power that lay dormant inside of him. This is another type of power he has over his brother, but it fills him with the same sense of satisfaction. 

“Aw,” Sam teases, wishing he wasn’t quite so breathless. “Didn’t you come, Dean?” 

Dean doesn’t look at him. Annoyed, Sam reaches out, dragging his fingers over Dean’s chest. When Dean still doesn’t open his eyes, Sam pinches a nipple.

Dean snaps his gaze to Sam as his mouth falls open with a pained pant. He glares at Sam, angry and annoyed and frightened, and Sam just smiles as he digs his nails deeper into Dean’s pink nub. Dean makes another choked sound before Sam twists, hard. Dean tries to pull away, but Sam keeps his grip tight, and Dean only succeeds in pulling harshly at his own nipple.

Sam laughs. It’s cute, and it’s hot, seeing Dean so desperate and clumsy under Sam’s power, under everything Sam makes him feel. Sam’s spent dick twitches in his pants. 

With a final sharp tug, and another harsh yelp from Dean, he slides off the bed. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam says as he pulls off his shirt. “I’ll get you there.” 

He shucks off his jeans and his stained boxers, then climbs back into bed, straddling his brother again. The feeling of his brother beneath him is even better now, with only Dean’s jeans between them. 

“Promise,” he whispers before dipping his tongue in to taste Dean’s mouth again. 

Dean tries to shake his head, tries to say  _no, Sammy, don’t do this to me, please_  (Sam can hear the words echoing helpless and desperate in Dean’s mind), but Sam just grips Dean’s jaw in one heavy hand. His grip isn’t harsh enough to bruise, yet, but it’s strong enough to keep Dean in line while Sam explores his mouth again. 

Sam likes kissing more than he expected. Dean’s mouth is so soft, softer than it looks, velvety like a pretty flower petal and so wet Sam could drown in it. 

After a final lick to Dean’s tongue, Sam pulls away. He’s breathing heavy and his body feels sluggish and hot: he feels high from Dean’s mouth, from Dean’s body. 

“You know, I’ve been waiting for this,” Sam murmurs against Dean’s cheek. 

He kisses the smooth skin there and decides he’s not going to let Dean’s stubble come in again: Dean needs to get over how fucking pretty he is, needs to just deal with and accept his ridiculous beauty instead of trying to make himself look more like a man with his bulky clothes and stubble. 

Sam kisses Dean’s jaw, licks at the blunt square of it, as Dean tries to move beneath him. 

“Waiting for you. Now that I finally have you, Dean, I’m gonna take my time. I haven’t done anything with anyone before, so now I’m gonna do everything with you.” Sam smiles as Dean tries to shake his head. “I’m gonna own every inch of you. Not like I don’t already, huh?” he chuckles. 

He fastens his teeth over Dean’s jaw. He liked biting Dean’s lips, thinks he’ll like sinking his teeth into Dean’s skin even more. Dean shifts under him as he gnaws and sucks on the flesh.

“This body doesn’t belong to you anymore, Dean. It’s mine. If I want your body to kill for me, it will. And if I want your body to come for me…” he trails off, grinding his hips against Dean’s dick, making Dean groan. “Then it’s going to come for me.” 

Sam bites Dean’s cheek, the flesh soft and yielding under his teeth.

“But that’s not what I want right now,” Sam murmurs. 

Right now, there are a million different things Sam wants, but he reminds himself to go slow, to be thorough. There are so many things to learn about what he likes, about what he wants, about Dean’s body: there is no need to rush, no excuse to miss anything. 

Sam sits up, making sure to move again Dean’s hips as he does. Dean tries not to make a sound, but his brother never can help himself. A soft moan, barely perceptible to Sam’s own ears, leaves his brother’s glistening mouth. 

“Already so needy for it,” Sam teases. “Think I’m going to get you off just because you look so pretty when you’re desperate, Dean?” 

Dean turns foggy, angry eyes to him, glaring. Sam laughs lightly as he brings his hands to Dean’s chest, rubs up and down until the pads of his fingers have the softness of Dean’s skin committed to muscle memory. Then Sam presses his nails into Dean’s collar and drags them down, over Dean’s nipples, over his ribs, over his soft stomach, through the trail of hair that Sam expected would be stiffer, more wiry.

Sam repeats the motion, bringing his nails over Dean’s skin with more and more pressure each time. Red streaks blossom behind Sam’s fingers. He never liked the way Dean looked streaked with the marks of nameless girls, but oh, he likes this. 

Sam moves his hands to Dean’s neck, rubbing his thumbs over the harsh bob of Dean’s Adam’s apple.

Later, Sam will play around with pressure, will see how long he can hold his brother’s throat in his hands before Dean starts begging, will see what if feels like to fill Dean clench around his cock while he cuts off Dean’s breath. 

Tonight, Sam wants to know what it feels like to suck bruises into his brother’s throat, wants to see what Dean will look like with Sam’s marks staining his skin.

With a flick of power, Dean is baring his throat to Sam, his brother and his general and his master. 

Sam starts at the left side of Dean’s neck. He latches onto the soft patch of skin beneath Dean’s ear, licking and sucking and biting, soft then hard then soft again, until the area is red and hot. Satisfied, Sam slides his lips and sucks in again, top of his teeth catching the very edge of the first bruise.

By the time Sam is done, there won’t be a pale inch on Dean’s pretty throat. 

Dean tries to ask him to stop a few times. Sam just bites harder, digs his right thumb into Dean’s throat until his brother is gasping for air. 

Dean is still hard underneath him, even harder than he was before. Sam wonders if Dean could come from this, from Sam’s teeth in his tender neck: Sam wonders what would be the smallest thing he could do to get Dean off. More experiments, he thinks, smug and gleeful. 

Sam doesn’t want Dean coming just yet, though. He knows how he wants that to happen, and he isn’t going to let pleasure he never anticipated distract him. 

As he keeps working Dean’s throat, his own cock starts to thicken again. He drags his hips against the rough denim of Dean’s jeans. He wants to feel skin, wants to feel  _Dean_ , underneath his dick. 

It’s awkward to keep his teeth in Dean’s neck and drag his cockhead over Dean’s stomach, but he arches his back and hitches his hips. The ache from the strange angle is worth it. Sam groans into the blooming bruises on Dean’s throat, his mouth loosening its grip on sweet skin as he pants. Sam just came, but he feels ready to spill over Dean’s skin at any moment. 

With another moan, Sam slides his hips from Dean’s. His cock bumps against the cut of Dean’s hipbone. He could just rub off against Dean again, his skin this time, paint Dean with come until he’s drenched and dripping. 

 “-fuckin’…vampire…” Dean rasps.

 Sam realizes he’s been so distracted by his own frenzy, the power he’s been using to keep Dean in his groggy state and his pretty mouth shut for once has eased.

When Sam pulls away from Dean’s neck, his skin is wet and red. Satisfaction curls through Sam’s chest, warm, and his dick pulses. 

“Would you rather have a real collar, Dean?” Sam asks, nosing along Dean’s spit slick skin. He moves to nip at Dean’s earlobe, bites harder than he meant to. “Everyone’s gotta know you belong to me somehow. I could get you one, put a leash on it, walk you around so they all know you’re mine.”

“Not – ah, ah, fuck – not a  _dog_ ,” Dean pants.

“No,” Sam agrees, licking the bite he gave Dean’s jaw. “You’re just a bitch.” 

Before Dean can argue, Sam sends a rush of power through Dean again, gagging him. Sam grins, cheeky and smug, as Dean narrows his hazy vision.

“Good boy,” Sam says, patting Dean’s head. “Now,” he whispers as he moves his mouth to Dean’s ear again. He licks the shell again, just because he knows how Dean hates it. “Roll over.” 

With a thought, Sam rolls Dean onto his belly. His eyes rake over the smattering of freckles covers Dean’s shoulders. He smiles: Dean hates his freckles, but Sam has always thought it was kind of cute that his big bad brother was covered in sweet little marks. 

Sam leans down to taste them, licking over Dean’s shoulder blades and spine. He doesn’t know why, but he almost thought, stupidly, ridiculously, that Dean’s freckles would taste different from the rest of him. 

He moves back to Dean’s neck, latching onto the skin below Dean’s hairline. Sam repeats the same motions he did on the front of Dean’s throat, completing his circlet of ownership. 

Sam decides to mark Dean’s back the same way he did his chest, dragging his nails over his brother’s skin until it is red and hot. 

Leaning on his knees to admire his work, Sam smiles to himself. His gaze dips to the round curve of Dean’s ass, and his smile deepens. 

“Oh, silly me,” he laughs softly, trailing his palm from Dean’s shoulder to his ass. He can feel Dean’s mind and muscles clench, an instinctive denial to Sam’s touch. “I never finished unwrapping my birthday present.” 

Then Dean’s jean are gone, leaving him bare and open to Sam’s hungry gaze. 

Sam shuffles down on the bed. Dean’s ass is high and round, as soft and plush looking as his mouth. There are so many things Sam could do, wants to do, has been planning to do with it, he’s a little overwhelmed. For a moment all he can do is  _stare_. 

Touch first, Sam thinks, latching onto the methodology he’d already chosen to shake away the dizziness of finally having his reward. 

He raises his right hand and trails the fingertips from Dean’s shoulder to his thigh. Dean shudders as Sam’s fingers trace lightly over his ass. Sam smirks and places his entire hand over the cheek, rubbing his fingers and palm over the skin.

He repeats the action on the other side, moving from the sharp blade of Dean’s shoulder to the inviting curve of his ass to the meat of his thigh. So much skin, Sam thinks, heart pounding. So much lovely, sweet skin, and it’s all for Sam. 

Sam thought exploring this part of Dean might be…not strange, but not as enticing and exciting as it is. Not as fascinating. Sam thinks he’s going to end up devoting even more time than he originally planned to it (and he allotted a grat deal of time to exploring this particular piece of his brother).

Left hand kneading Dean’s ass cheek, Sam brings his other hand to the back of Dean’s slick neck. He drags his fingers down, slowly, purposefully, giving Dean’s foggy mind more than enough time to guess where Sam’s fingers will end up. 

Sam decides to give Dean enough space to speak just as the tips of his middle and index fingers reach the split in Dean’s ass. He places the barest hint of pressure, but the threat, the promise, is obvious.

“D-don’t,” Dean mumbles, protest muffled by the weakness of his voice and the pillow he speaks into. “Sammy, that’s – that’s sick – ”

“Then I guess you’re not still hard, huh, Dean? If this,” Sam says, dragging his fingers just above Dean’s hole, pressing hard into that dizzying heat. “Is so sick, then you’re not still about to come, right?”

Dean tries to shake his head, voice wet and desperate as he repeats Sam’s name like a prayer. Sam ignores the trembling and uses his power to shift Dean’s knees, making his brother push his ass out like an invitation. Sam can see his brother’s dick, hard and curved up to his belly, drooling so prettily Sam almost reaches out to touch, to taste.

Suddenly, Sam decides the first idea isn’t so bad. Keeping one hand on Dean’s ass, Sam brings the other to Dean’s cock, squeezing hard enough to be painful.

“How can you be so hard for me, Dean? For your baby brother?” Sam laughs. “That’s  _sick_.”

Sam yanks his power from Dean (like they used to yank chairs from beneath each other when they were kids) and Dean falls limp back to the bed.

Dean makes a noise into the pillow, muffled cursing, but Sam can feel the horror and disgust and self-hatred curling through his bones. Dean is more terrified by his body’s reaction to Sam than by Sam himself.   

“Don’t so provincial, big brother,” Sam says, teasing but sincere. 

Dean doesn’t need to be ashamed of this, of how he melts for Sam. The way he rolled over for John, for those girls – that is what Dean should loath, that is what should disgust him. Not this, not baring his throat, his everything, for his Sammy.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam tells him, softening his voice to the same honey tone Dean always used when he spoke the words to Sam. “It’s okay. You’ve always been kind of a slut, you know, and you’ve always been mine. So it makes sense for you to want this. And it’s okay.” Sam holds his cock in his hand, rubbing it over one firm but so soft cheek. “See?” Sam groans. “I want it too. We both do.” 

Then Sam moves, shifts so he can lean down and bite right above the high curve of Dean’s ass.

Dean  _yelps_  into the pillow, and Sam doesn’t bother to hide his laugh of amusement. Sam realizes that for the first time in a very long time, he’s having fun. He realizes this is fun: sex, sex with Dean, teasing and using his brother. 

Sam presses the side of his face against Dean’s ass, feeling the softness and the warmth. He wasn’t planning on it, but he ends up dropping a kiss to the light print his thumb left in Dean’s skin. When Dean squirms, thinks again that Sam is just being  _gross_ , Sam begins peppering wet, open-mouthed kisses to every inch. 

He bites the flesh, too, after it’s slick from his kisses. Dean makes more injured, indignant noises as Sam keeps nipping his ass.

Sam is aching and full. He has to take a moment, fist himself to relieve the pressure. There are still so many things Sam wants to do: he hasn’t touched Dean’s arms or legs, hasn’t gotten nearly enough time with Dean’s cock, but  _fuck_  he’s ready to come again. 

With a final deep bite to Dean’s left cheek, Sam shifts up. He takes a moment to admire the marks he’s left on Dean’s skin, to appreciate the view of the ass that belongs, unequivocally, to him now.  

Sam slides his leg over Dean’s hip, wedges his cock right between the warm, reddened cheeks, and thrusts. 

He slides his dick along Dean’s hot crease. Damn, it’s more intense this way, skin on skin, cock to ass, brother to brother. Sam can almost imagine how it’s going to feel to sink into Dean’s hole like a hot knife through tender flesh, but can’t really wrap his mind around something he’s never felt before. If it’s this incredible to just rub  _against_  Dean’s body, how is going to feel to be  _inside_  of it? 

Sam rocks against Dean for a few more minutes, thinking of the heat and clench he’s going to find once he finally fucks Dean the way he’s been wanting to.

Sam drops his head so he can watch the way his dick slides along Dean’s high, perfect ass. The flared head of his cock pushes between those firm, sweet cheeks. It’s the barest feeling, the barest hint, of heat, of the tight indention of Dean’s hole, against a heavy vein that sends Sam over the edge. 

His come spurts over Dean’s ass, shooting over the crease and the dip of Dean’s lower back.

Sam is panting, exhausted and entranced, as he coats his brother’s skin. Dean looks good like this, covered with Sam’s come, like it’s supposed to be there, clinging to Dean’s softness. 

Sam drops on his back again. His body and brain are absolutely spent.

Sleepy and sated (for now), Sam uses his power to maneuver Dean’s body and tuck it against his side. Dean’s own cock juts hot and hard, flushed so deeply red it’s almost purple, and Sam ignores it with a sense of amusement. 

“Let’s get some sleep, Dean,” Sam murmurs, yawning, as he wraps an arm around Dean’s body. “Got a full agenda tomorrow.”

Sam kisses Dean’s forehead, gently, then nips at his jaw again. Hand stroking the bruises blooming on Dean’s throat, Sam drifts to sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam experiments.

****Sam wakes up with his brother's soft hair under his chin and his brother's belly, warm and firm, against his dick.

Forgetting himself, forgetting the new world order and status quo, he jerks his hips back as if Dean's skin  will scald him, burn his already burning cockhead. His muscles clench and his brain spins. What if Dean wakes up to his baby brother's erection pressed into his stomach? What if John walks in to find Sammy naked and hard against his best soldier?

Then the night before rushes through his head, like a spring flood cleansing the dead weight of winter away, warming the chill that had settled in his stomach.

John is on the rack, exactly where his pitiful excuse for a soul belongs.

Dean is in Sam’s bed, at Sam’s side, exactly where he belongs. 

Everything is right, now, and Sam takes a steadying breath. Everything is how Sam wants it, how it should be. 

He doesn’t have to watch over his shoulder for John’s or Dean’s suspicions anymore. He doesn’t have to hide, not his power or his truth, anymore. 

He doesn’t have to pretend Dean doesn’t belong to him in every way anymore.

Dean is still asleep when Sam shifts his focus from his own mind to his brother’s. Nightmares are racing in Dean’s brain, a little bloodier and a lot hotter than before, and Sam finds his lips curling somewhere between a frown and a smirk. Dean’s thoughts are terror laced even in his sleep, trembling as his subconscious tries to piece together the events of last night and shield him from them at the same time.

Sam wants Dean to dream of him, but he wants those visions to dance slick and hot and good behind Dean’s pretty eyes. 

But if Sam wants to train the terror out of Dean, if he wants Dean to see him and them and the world for what it is now, he’s going to have to be the one to show his brother how things have changed. 

He can do that, he thinks to himself with a smile. It is part of the plan, after all. 

Sam takes a moment to drag his eyes, hot and hungry, over Dean. He’s naked and curled slightly on his side, beautiful in the dim light of the room. Sam distantly notes the light streaming under the heavy curtains, realizes it must be early morning, and that, technically, it’s still his birthday. 

Smirking to himself, Sam runs a hand over Dean’s cheek. Dean twitches minutely in his sleep, adorable, but doesn’t stir. Sam rolls his eyes a little and brings his palm down, brushing the almost solid ring of bruises on Dean’s throat. It’s a damn pretty sight, stunning, and Sam doesn’t think twice about leaning down to lick at the ownership he sucked into Dean’s skin.

When Dean still doesn’t wake up, Sam frowns a little. Brushing a tendril of awareness against Dean’s mind, he realizes the lazy film of power he used to ease Dean into sleep is still humming, keeping Dean wrapped in rest and nightmares. 

Sam could lull Dean out of his supernatural sleep slowly so as not to confuse or hurt his brother.

Instead, Sam pulls Dean from his slumber as quickly and sharply as he can. 

Dean jolts awake with a desperate gulp of air. His limbs flail so violently, his body twists so desperately, that he jerks himself out of bed. He falls to the hardwood floor with a thud and a grunt. 

Sam can’t stop laughing, even when his brother, panting and wide-eyed terrified, pushes himself up to his knees to glare at Sam over the bed. 

“Shut the hell up,” Dean mutters, sounding more confused than angry.

Sam is still laughing, but it softens as Dean breathes heavily and looks around the room, taking in the surroundings with an expression between bewildered fear and bewildered rage. He looks lovely, his vulnerability almost visibly slicking his skin. 

“Where – ” Dean starts, gaze traveling around the room. “What. What the fu – ” he trails off, swallowing hard, and as Sam’s reminded of his aching cock as he watches the movement of Dean’s throat. Wincing, Dean brings a hand to his neck. “Sammy,” he says slowly. “Where the fuck are my clothes?” 

Sam offers a lazy smile. “Dunno,” he answers honestly. “I’m not sure if I just wipe things out of existence when I vanish them, or if there’s some sort of alternate, lost-sock dimension where things go.”

Dean is staring at him incredulously, as if he hasn't comprehended a single word Sam has spoken....which he probably hasn't, actually. Sam realizes Dean does have a legitimate reason to be confused. He was drugged with power and the last drudges of morphine when Azazel came for John. His soul was tethered when the demons spirited them to Hell for the coronation. He had barely been able to follow the glint of Azazel's dagger when demon servants had cut into him to complete the blood ritual. Sam hadn’t explained much, either, last night, just kept Dean locked tight in his curl of power while he unwrapped his reward.

Dean's missed a lot, and Sam is going to fill him in on the pertinent details (Dean doesn't need to know  _everything_ ). 

Later.

Sam's chest is still light with triumph and his cock is still heavy with blood and heat. He has the time to lay it out for his brother now, but he'd rather take the time to lay  _Dean_ out again, to continue his exploration of Dean in this new, heated way.

Besides, Dean has kept Sam in the dark before: did it for years, under John’s direction, of course, but Dean has still lied and omitted and shadowed things from Sam. 

“Dean,” he begins, but the name leaves his lips at the exact moment Dean realizes Sam is in the same state of undress as he is.

Dean scrambles away from the bed, twisting the silk sheet around his hips to hide himself as he does. 

“It wasn’t – fuck,” Dean rasps. His hands twitch in the sheet and his muscles shake. He wants to run, but even disorientated and fragile, he knows he has nowhere to go. “Fucking shit, fucking – fucking  _fuck_ , it wasn’t a nightmare, it was real, you – ” Sam can hear his thoughts pounding wildly, can feel his frantic need to gather Sam in his arms and bolt, save him from the fire again…

Sam blinks. “You carried me out?” he asks, tilting his head. John told him about the fire that destroyed their home, their mother, their lives, but somehow failed to mention that it was  _Dean_ who cradled Sam’s crying baby body and carried it to safety. 

_Fuck_. John didn’t even save his own children. John didn’t even make sure the sons of the wife he loved so dearly were safe. He just told Dean to take care of Sammy and Dean, weak, beautiful Dean, just did it. “I didn’t…I never knew,” Sam says, and he can almost feel something like softness in his heart.

“How did – are you – ” Dean laughs, rough and unbelieving. “Are you fucking reading my mind?” 

“Yes,” Sam answers distractedly, still focused on the anger and the unbelievable bastard that is –  _was_ – John Winchester. “Thoughts, emotions, whatever your mind or body feel.” 

A hurricane implodes inside Dean’s mind, inside of his heart, and it pulls Sam from his rage. When Dean speaks, it’s barely a whisper. 

“Sammy?”

Dean looks so desperately lost, so beautifully vulnerable, the soft thing in Sam’s chest grows. With a gentle tug of power, Sam drags his brother back to the edge of the bed. Dean doesn’t struggle as he slides across the floor, only grips the sheets until his knuckles turn white and grits his teeth until Sam can feel the ache in his jaw. 

“Hey, calm down,” Sam tells him. He shifts forward so he’s sitting cross legged at the edge, close enough to lay his hands on Dean’s shoulders. His skin is still warm from sleep, soft, and Sam rubs his palms over Dean’s biceps.

” _Sam_ ,” his brother breathes, and it’s a plea. He’s begging for Sam to tell him this is some sick, sick joke, that there is a way out of this room and this fucked up situation, that he really was dreaming, that he didn’t watch his father be dragged to Hell and that he isn’t Sam’s. 

“I’m on Hell’s side now, Dean,” Sam tells him. Dean shakes his head violently, thinks Sam is confused, has been tricked, manipulated by the Yellow-Eyed demon that burned his life down. Sam brings one hand to grip Dean’s chin, stop his denial and force him to look at Sam. His eyes shine bright with beauty and hot tears. “I’m their Boy King.” Dean tries to curse him and yank away, but Sam holds him still. “I know you still don’t get it. But Dean, you’re on Hell’s side now, too.” 

Dean manages to rip through Sam’s gentle hold of power. “You’ve lost your god damn marbles, Sammy. We’re not – you’re not on their side. Neither of us are. We’re the  _good_ guys, okay, we  _kill_ the things that come outta the Pit, we don’t fucking  _help_  them.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow as Dean glares at him. “You done?” 

Dean’s face twists with rage as he pushes away from the bed again. “No. No, I’m not done. You – I don’t know what the fuck you did, Sammy, but you better tell me right now so we can fix it.” 

Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

“Sammy!” Dean growls, voice gruff and rough and actually kind of hilarious, because Dean doesn’t really sound like that, and Sam knows it. “You better start talking or I swear to God I will kick your ass so hard even Dad – ” 

Sam’s power clogs Dean’s throat and mind as soon as the word spills. He wraps a tendril around Dean’s throat, squeezing painfully before he drags Dean back to the edge of the bed by the neck. Dean’s hands fly to his throat, try to wrestle the invisible hands away, but he can’t grasp what isn’t there. 

“You’re done,” Sam tells him, voice even despite his rage. John made Dean carry him out of the fire, never said a god damn word, and Dean, stupidly loyal Dean, is still protecting him, still acting like John is his first priority. “I told you, Dean, you don’t say his name. You don’t think it.” 

“-am,” Dean gasps, face turning red as he struggles. “Can’t…c-can’t…”

“I know you can’t fucking breathe,” Sam snaps. “Don’t you get it, Dean? That’s me around your neck. That’s me in your head.” A few tears are streaming down Dean’s cheeks now, sad and choking, and it calms Sam, a little, to see Dean crumbling under his control. “It’s up to me. Everything. Whether you can think. Whether you can talk. Whether you can fucking breathe.”

Dean thinks  _please, Sammy, please, please, please_. Sam pulls him up by the power around his throat, drags him until his knees are barely on the floor and his face is close enough that if he was breathing, it would hit Sam’s throat. 

“Do you get it?” Dean is denying it to the very core of his being even as he struggles to shake his head. Dean will lie to survive while he tries to plan an escape, but Sam isn’t going to play that game. “No, Dean, I want you to _really_  get it. I want you to  _understand_. I decide if you’re allowed to breathe, if you’re allowed to live. If you die. It’s up to me.” 

_Fine!_ Dean cries out, and his soul shudders with the admission.  _Fucking fine, Sammy please…_

Sam releases him. Dean falls into a panting heap on the floor. Sam allows him to struggle, to burn, for a few moments before a flick of power calms Dean’s body and brings his breathing back to normal.

Dean stares up at Sam with horrified awe. Sam feels a small flare of pride as Dean wonders at Sam’s power. 

“You’re such a jerk,” Sam huffs, pulling Dean back to his knees. Dean brings his palms to the edge of the mattress, curling his shaking fingers into the bed spread. “You make a much better bitch.” 

Dean flinches when Sam brings a hand to his hair, but when Sam narrows his eyes, Dean hesitantly moves back under his brother’s hand. 

“See how much better it is when you’re good for me?” Sam asks, threading his fingers through Dean’s hair. 

“Am I allowed to answer that?” Dean says, sarcastic and unsteady and bristling with anger. 

“If I don’t want you talk, you’ll know,” Sam answers. He brings his other hand to Dean’s neck, fingers moving from his jaw to his collar. “In fact, I’m a little tired of you talking right now.”

“So what are you gonna do, Ursula, take my voice? Put it in a fucking seashell? Cut my tongue out? Christ, do you even…” he shakes his head. Apprehensive but pretending to be strong, Dean peers at Sam from underneath soft spun lashes. “You could just think it, couldn’t you, and I – ”

 “Wouldn’t be able to say a damn thing?” Sam finishes, grinning as Dean gaps at him. He gives Dean his voice back as soon as he says it, but Dean, miracle of miracles, doesn’t say a thing. “Kinda how the whole demonic powers thing works. All I have to do is want something, and I have it. For instance….” 

Sam lets himself trail off as he brings both hands to cradle Dean’s jaw.

“Right now I want you to suck me off,” he breathes, and Dean’s eyes shatter with betrayal and humiliation as they fly doe-wide. Sam almost laughs. He brushes Dean’s bottom lip with his thumb. “You know how many girls have wanted that, Dean? How many demons? I never even let them touch me.” 

“No wonder you’ve gone off your rocker,” Dean mutters. “That much sexual frustration would drive anyone nuts.”

“Not crazy, Dean,” Sam says. He isn’t angry; he’s eager, the same giddy feeling of anticipation he had last night bubbling through him. “Just different than how you thought I was. But we can talk about that later. Right now…” 

“You’ve gotta – ” Dean starts, trying to pull away from Sam’s hands. Sam’s power keeps him there, but he allows Dean to keep speaking. Dean grits his next words through clenched teeth. “You have to know I don’t – I’m not gonna do that. I don’t. God,” he laughs, sobs, and Sam can feel his heart tremble. “Why the fuck are you doing this? You can’t want that.”

“I do.” 

“You  _can’t_ ,” Dean insists, his words and chest aching vehemently with the strength of the denial. “We’re  _brothers_ , Christ, or did you forget? Does it even matter to you anymore? We’re blood, Sammy, we can’t – you can’t want that. You  _don’t_.”

“I do,” Sam says again, irritated with having to repeat himself. 

“You didn’t before…before whatever the fuck this shit is.” 

Sam tilts Dean’s head up, forcing his brother to look him in the eyes. “Do you remember when I was seven and we were chasing Yellow-Eyes’ trail in Denver?” Dean nods, slowly, unsteadily. “We had to write this essay about who we loved most. Do you remember that? I told you about it.” 

“You never…you never let me read it,” Dean says quietly. “Thought I’d make fun of you. I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t have laughed at you, Sammy.” 

“You would have been freaked out,” Sam says. “I wrote about you.”

“Sammy you – you were just a kid. You didn’t – ” 

“I’ve known I wanted to fuck you since I was twelve,” Sam says decisively, and Dean’s voice falters as his mouth falls open. “You don’t get to say that I’m confused or that I didn’t want this before. You didn’t know. I didn’t want you to know, so you didn’t, but I’m letting you know now.” 

Sam holds Dean, who’s trembling now, shaking and shattering so fucking pretty for Sam, and slides further on the bed. He brackets Dean’s shoulders between his legs and shifts Dean’s face so he has no choice but to stare at Sam’s cock, hard and throbbing. 

“You can blow me yourself, the way you were so eager to do last night.” Sam doesn’t allow Dean to shake his head, doesn’t allow even a spark of denial to flutter in Dean’s mind. “Or I can make you. I can force you to choke yourself on my cock, but I won’t have to force you to enjoy it.” Sam grins at the flush that covers Dean’s skin. 

“You want…that,” Dean spits, shaking, “You’re gonna have to fuckin’ take it.”

Sam’s grin falters. “Fine.” 

Sam has been fascinated by Dean’s mouth since before the demon, since before he even knew what he could use it for. Dean’s lips are so plush, so pink, so full, always hanging in that half-gasp. When Sam realized what he wanted from Dean, what he wanted to do to that mouth, he could barely keep his eyes off it.

Sam has seen girls go down on Dean before, watched them swallow his pretty dick, watched Dean’s mouth open and pant and groan, watched Dean fall apart. He has a better idea of what it’s going to feel like to sink his cock into that wet heat now that he’s had his tongue there, but he still can’t quite imagine it.

He uses his power to bring that soft mouth to the head of his dick. The first brush is incredible. He makes an almost startled moan, then laughs, breathless. Dean’s lips are warmwarmwarm, softsoftsoft, and Sam knew that, but moving against his cock, they’re even warmer, even softer, even better.

He makes Dean rub his lips over his cock until pre-come beads fat on his slit. He threads his fingers through Dean's hair, uses only the strength of his muscles to pull Dean back so he can see it, so he can watch Sam's cock drool for him. Dean shudders. His expression is a mixture of disgust and wonder, and Sam can feel the horror, feel the nausea twisting Dean's stomach, overriding his own curiosity and lust.

If Dean would stop being a stubborn jerk, would just let himself melt into the pretty bitch he really is, then they could explore this new territory together. 

Annoyed with Dean's unwillingness, Sam uses a warm rush of power to coax Dean's tongue from his mouth. He makes Dean tongue his slit, makes Dean taste him. He groans at the swipe of wet and hot against his already burning skin. 

Fuck, Sam thought Dean's lips were perfect, but Dean's tongue moves along another level entirely. He makes Dean lick the head of his dick until they're both shaking. Sam pulls Dean off him then brings him forward, shoving his own tongue into Dean's mouth.

Sam soothes Dean's nausea and quiets some of the thoughts frantically racing between Dean's conscious and cock. He silences all questions of John entirely. 

When Sam lowers that sweet mouth back to his cock, Dean is twitching against his own thighs, dick filling despite his fear and disgust. 

"That's not me," Sam pants as he makes Dean lean forward to lick at the base of his cock. Dean makes an almost pained noise when Sam has him lick a broad stripe from the base of his dick back to the head, and Sam drowns it with a heavy groan. "You're so hard, just from licking your baby brother's cock." 

Dean's mind whirls. More tears roll down his soft cheeks, more horror eats away at his gut, more denials and desperate bids for freedom shake in his brain. 

Sam alternates between making Dean give him soft and short kitten licks, then making Dean lick him sloppy and hungry, like he's never been thirstier for anything in his life. Sam likes it both ways: the gentle, teasing pressure and the desperate laps. He realizes he could come just from Dean's tongue on him. He'd never thought about that before. That's why this first exploratory step is so important.

Part of Sam wants to keep Dean like this, lapping hungry and desperate at his cock; part of him wants to just shove in, push right past Dean’s lush lips into his molten mouth.

Sam doesn’t do either. Instead, he makes Dean wet his lips, then makes him take the slippery head into the cradle of his mouth.

Dean’s teeth brush over Sam’s skin. The pressure is light but uncomfortable, and he pulls back with a gentle hiss. He frowns, considering how to take Dean’s mouth without scraping himself.

Finally, Sam uses a brush of power to curl Dean’s lips over his teeth. He slides Dean’s wet, open mouth over his cock again, and almost melts at the feeling of warm silk around him.

He makes Dean take another inch, then another, and another, more and more until half of his cock is sitting happy and hard in Dean’s furnace mouth. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. For a few moments, he just stays there. He soaks up the heat, the wet warmth, the sight of Dean’s gorgeous mouth stretched wide and full by his cock.

He should do this, he decides, some day when he knows both of their bodies better. He should just slide his cock all the way into Dean’s mouth and keep it there, keep Dean’s lips wrapped around him for hours.

Today, though, he makes Dean start sucking the cock resting in his mouth. A fever hot tear rolls into Dean’s open mouth, splashing against the poor parts of his dick that haven’t felt those Heaven cheeks flutter around it.

Then Dean shifts on his knees, swallows and moves his tongue on accident as he does, and the movement makes Sam moan. He didn’t even think about making Dean move his tongue along with his mouth. When he makes Dean tongue at the head of his dick while he makes Dean hollow his cheeks and slurp him down, he thinks he might come from how incredible it feels.

He makes Dean slide down even further, almost to the base of his dick. Dean makes a muffled noise of protest and thinks that he can’t, it feels too strange and too full and he can’t, he really is going to choke on his brother’s dick because he can’t…

“You can,” Sam pants. He rubs Dean’s hair before settling his palm around the back of Dean’s head. With a thought, he eases Dean’s breathing, calming Dean’s panic and allowing him to take in fuller, deeper breaths through his nose. Then he shifts his hips and finishes fucking his entire cock into Dean’s mouth.

They both shudder at the movement. Sam realizes that it isn’t just Dean’s mouth working tight and hot and perfect around him; that’s Dean _throat_ fluttering around the head of his dick. This is deep-throating, Sam realizes in an amused daze.

“First time taking a cock,” Sam moans, eyes closing shut as he makes Dean suck. “And you’re already deep—throating like a pro.”

Dean bristles, physically and mentally, at the tease, and his discomfort only heightens Sam’s pleasure.

“Always – always knew you were a cocksucker, Dean. That fuckin’ mouth. Made for this. Made for me, made to take my dick all the way down, so good – ”

_Shut up_ , Dean thinks. He isn’t directing it towards Sam, keeps forgetting his baby brother can read everything about him now.

“Thought you liked a little dirty talk?” Sam teases. His words come out as groans. “C’mon bro, don’t – fuck, fuck – don’t pretend you don’t like it. You’re panting for it, so hard for me. You gonna come, Dean? You gonna come just from me coming down your throat?”

Dean’s not, of course: even if he could get off just from Sam’s cock heavy in his throat, Sam isn’t going to let him. Not yet, anyway, not right now. Not when Dean is still pretending not to like it, still acting like he has any control over anything anymore.

Sam doesn’t last much longer. He keeps making Dean suck him sloppy and sweet. He thinks about how good it was to rub off on Dean’s skin and how much better it is, better than he even imagined, to have his dick in Dean’s mouth. He’d always thought getting blown would be over-rated, somehow, with the way Dean would talk and dream and pant about it, but it’s not.

He can’t wait to learn exactly what he likes, exactly the way he wants Dean to suck him. He can’t wait until Dean stops being pig-headed and accepts this new, better life. He can’t wait until he can teach his brother, until the day Dean swallows Sam’s cock whole without even a push of power from Sam himself.

He holds out as long as he can, but Dean’s tongue and mouth and throat (fuck, his _throat_ ) work furious around him. He comes with a shout

After he just sits there, body shaking and sated. He keeps his dick where it is as he sighs, lets his mind and muscles float down.

_Get it out of me_ , Dean thinks desperately. Sam wonders if Dean is actually trying to direct the message to him, but Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut and his entire body is trembling.

With a heavy sigh, Sam slowly, slowly, slowly eases his cock out of his brother.

Dean crumples into a shuddering heap at Sam’s feet. His dick is still flushed and full. His mouth looks even redder and plumper than usual, so pretty and inviting that Sam is tempted to just push right on in again.

Then he realizes there’s nothing stopping him. He can take Dean’s mouth as many times in as many ways as he wants. That mouth _is_ his, now – always has been, really.

Sam decides he’s going to spend the rest of the day playing around with blowjobs. He’s going to filter Dean’s memories and have Dean do everything any girls has ever done for him.

Then, because good experiments can be repeated, will yield the same results, Sam is going to do it all over again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes a plan.

Sam's time with his brother is cut short when Brady knocks on the double-wide bedroom doors. 

 

He has Dean's tongue on his balls and he's leaning heavy against the wall. He hadn't ever really touched himself there before and he had no idea how amazing it would feel to get Dean's mouth  _there_. He's just about to make Dean take his cock again when Brady's voice booms from outside.

 

"Hey, your Lordship," Brady calls.

 

Sam could send him back to the Pit for that tone, could do it without even turning his gaze to the doors, without having to move away from his delicious Dean. 

 

He won't though. He's been in this room with his brother for hours and King's have duties: demons to train, plans to make, things to kill, sacrifices to make. 

 

"I hear you," Sam rasps when Brady bangs the door and calls again. 

 

It's an effort, the way nothing really has been in such a long time, to make Dean stop licking him. 

 

Dean leans back against the wall. His head falls back, and Sam, tired as he is from coming so many, many times, uses a gentle brush of power to keep Dean's head from thwacking against the wood too hard. 

 

Dean blinks up at him through tear-stung eyes. There is a little red bleeding into the green, clashing with it, and Sam is reminded of every Christmas John forgot and Dean tried to salvage. 

 

Dean must have felt the tingle on his neck from Sam's motion. Sam smiles down at him as he pants. He won’t let Dean hurt himself: Sam is the only one allowed to do that now.

 

Dean’s face is slick with tears and spit, but not a drop of come, because Sam has made him swallow every drizzle. He's gorgeous.

 

Sam can't stop thinking of that Christmas as he leans down. He eyes the amulet around Dean's neck, the bruises clinging to his raw throat, and can't think of anywhere he would rather be. 

 

"Duty calls," Sam breathes as he reaches forward to trail his fingers over Dean's Adam's apple. The skin is hot, must be so red and raw inside, Sam wishes he could peer down Dean's throat and see the damage, lick it clean and healthy so he could wreck it again. "Don't worry, bro, I won't be gone long." 

 

"Whe - wh - " Dean rasps. He hasn't used his voice for a while and Sam has fucked his throat so many times there must barley be any space for words. Sam leans forward. Dean tenses, shivering, but doesn't try to get away when Sam presses a kiss to his throat. After Sam pulls back, Dean stares at him.

 

"Go on," Sam teases, bumping his nose into Dean's jaw. 

 

"Where are you going?" Dean asks. He looks shocked that he can speak the words at all. His hands flutter to his throat, checking carefully for damage that is no longer there. 

 

"Work," Sam answers. He can smell himself all over Dean, smell himself inside of Dean, and if he didn't want to leave before, he sure as fuck doesn't want to leave now. "Wanna go with me? You could kneel at my feet if you promise not to bark or bite anyone."

 

Even exhausted, Dean can muster a sharp glare. Sam smiles. Dean always accused him of having an epic Bitchface, but honestly Dean pulls it just as often and just as sharply as Sam. 

 

"Gimme a knife and I'll show you some fuckin'  _work_."

Sam sighs. He knew it was going to be like this, knew  _Dean_ was going to be like this; it’s why he waited until he knew he would have all the time left in the world to temper his brother to his will before lighting the first fire.

 

He knew, but he wasn’t prepared for the frustration of Dean’s stubborn will.

 

The pounding on the door resumes, heavy and grating on Sam's ears. 

 

"Coming," he snaps again. 

 

With a sigh, he leans forward and drops a kiss to Dean's hair. It will take time to temper his brother to a new master, he reminds himself. Dean needs to simmer in the fires he's spreading, needs to burn, before he can melt at Sam's feet.

 

With a thought, Sam is back in a pair of dark jeans and a deep grey button down.

 

Dean is still leaning against the wall when Sam turns back to him. He's peering at Sam over his cheekbones. Sam realizes he hasn't paid much attention to that particular strike of Dean's artful features. He moves towards Dean, crouching again, and runs the pads of his fingers over the delicate cut of bone. Dean shudders under his touch, then shivers when Sam replaces his fingertips with his lips. 

 

"You're beautiful," Sam breathes without meaning to. Shaking his head, he nips hard at Dean's throat, smiling against Dean's bruises as his brother hisses. "C'mon. Why don't you take a little nap while I'm gone?"

 

Sam is planning to lay another gentle film of power over his brother, keep him peaceful and sedated so he doesn't do anything stupid or reckless while Sam is away. But as Sam begins to shift his focus under Dean's hips, Dean grabs Sam's hands and yanks him close. 

 

"Tell me," Dean hisses, and his eyes are burning like the flames Sam saw in Hell, only harsher. "Tell me, you son of - tell me - "

 

"Tell you what," Sam asks, confused. He could pull himself from Dean's hands, but he doesn't.

 

"Tell me what they did to you!" Dean snaps. 

 

Sam is thrown by Dean's desperation. Sam is thrown by Dean's desperation. He's been prepared for anger, for defiance, but the wild, ragged  _sorrow_ bleeding through Dean's eyes, drenching Sam's skin, is something he hadn't expected. 

 

"Who?" Sam asks, searching Dean's brain and heart and finding only frantic frailty that is a moment from spinning apart. "Dean, calm down, stop – ”

 

"The demons, Jesus  _fuck!"_ Dean screams. He pushes Sam to the ground, and Sam is so stunned by the sudden outburst he falls to his back.

 

Brady bangs on the door. “Your Highness?” he calls sardonically.

 

“Give me a minute,” Sam barks as Dean crawls onto his chest.

 

He digs his nails into the fabric of Sam's shirt and snarls, "Tell me what they did to you? Was it a ritual? C’mon, Sammy, fuckin’ think, what did they – ”

 

Sam pushes Dean off him with a slap of power. It’s not as harsh as it could be. Dean lands on his ass as Sam slides him into the wall, grunting when his back hits the wood paneling.

 

“Dean,” Sam says, lowly, slowly, as he pushes himself up from the floor.

 

Dean’s eyes are so wide, so fragile, watching Sam dazedly as he stalks forward.

 

“This is me. This is who I’ve always been. Demons didn’t do a damn thing to me. In fact, they’ve helped me.” He crouches down, taking Dean’s face in his hands. He brushes his thumb over Dean’s lip. His brother doesn’t flinch, but inside he shudders.

 

“No, Sam – ”

 

“This is who I am. You need to understand that.”

“No,” Dean pants again. “No, I’m gonna save you.”

 

Sam pulls his hands from Dean's face as if he's been burned. He can barely hear Dean's thoughts over the blood, the demon blood, rushing in his ears. 

 

"Dean," he hisses, warning in his tone.

 

Dean, so weak he's incapable of uncurling himself from the soldier John carved him into, just presses every ounce of resolve he feels through his heart and into Sam's head. 

“I'm gonna save you,” Dean repeats. 

 

Sam stares at him incredulously.  

 

“Sam!” Brady shouts.

 

“I heard you,” Sam yells at the door as he pushes himself to his feet. Shaking his head, he turns his attention back to his brother. “I’ve already been saved.”

 

Dean’s eyes widen and his heart seizes in his chest and he thinks  _no, Sammy, Sam, gonna save you, we’re gonna -_

 

“ _We_  aren’t going do  _anything_ ,” Sam snaps.

 

Dean is trembling, and Sam can feel the heat of unshed tears and quiet screams shaking through Dean’s body. John’s voice buzzes, a stupid fly, in the cracks of terror spreading through Dean’s psyche. Dean clings to his orders, his job, his crusade:  _protect Sammy_. Dean, who knows, because it was Sam’s first rule, that even imaging John’s face is taboo, clings to the memory of their father and to every lesson he taught.

 

The anger bubbling from Dean’s continued defiance tremors. How can Dean be so blind? How can Dean be so fucking frustrating even now? Sam has enough power to single-handedly get the Apocalypse rolling, free Lucifer from his cage, set the stage for the final battle, and he still can’t cut John’s influence from Dean’s soul.

 

The need to smother every image, every thought, until the only thing in Dean’s head is Sam, burns.  

 

“Why can’t you get it?”

 

Sam crouches in front of his brother’s shivering body. Dean makes a pained noise as Sam smoothes a hand over his neck, but Sam ignores it. He needs the steadying heat of his bruises in Dean’s skin to calm him.

 

“You’re the one who always needs saving,” Sam says harshly. “From John. From your own stupidity. From your own weakness. Don’t you get it, Dean? I’m saving  _you_.”

 

Dean shakes as Sam brings his other hand to rest on Dean’s thigh. The skin is so soft under his thumb, Sam thinks he could sink into it. He moves his fingers over Dean’s fragile flesh, allowing the feeling of silk and marrow under his skin to calm his raging blood.

 

“Why are you being like this?” Sam asks when he can breathe again. “You belong to me, and you’ll be so much stronger, Dean, so much happier once you stop fighting.”

 

Dean stares into Sam's eyes with desperate confusion. The patience Sam had planned so long to display teeters delicately. 

 

A heavy crack brings Sam’s gaze to the door, but his fingers remain caressing Dean’s skin.

 

“Azazel is calling you, your Excellency.”

 

Annoyed, Sam glares at Brady through the thick wood of the bedroom doors. Without glancing at Dean’s face, Sam says, “Sit tight.”

 

He strides towards the door. Cracking it open only enough to peer at the young man Brady is wearing, Sam narrows his eyes.

 

“I said I heard you.”

 

Brady doesn’t even attempt subtlety as he pushes up on his body’s toes and cranes his head, trying to wrap his vision around Sam’s form in the doorway. Sam closes the door even more tightly, pushing his shoulder and leg out of the crack. The shift draws Brady’s attention back to Sam’s face, where it should have been respectfully resting the entire time.

 

“Having a little lovers spat?” Brady teases, not particularly unkind but still treading so closely to blasphemy Sam’s power itches. “Azazel wants to see you in the drawing room. There are some generals you need to meet, and – ”

 

“Brady,” Sam says, slowly. The demon stops talking, but doesn’t lose his air of annoyance or attitude. “Am I, or am I not, your King?”

 

Brady tenses. Sam’s abilities are as well known as his temper, and though some demons who haven’t been around him doubt the crackling power of both, Brady has seen the carelessness with which Sam tears demons souls to shreds. Lost in his own arrogance and frustration, Brady can sometimes forget who his Boy King truly is.

 

“You are,” Brady says, attempting to keep the shiver from his voice.

 

It’s funny how much like Dean this demon, all demons, are: they want so desperately to hide their fear and weakness, but Sam can see through it. Unlike Dean, however, demons are hollow, lacking loyalty and the ability to amuse and soothe Sam, to inspire fondness and lust, to satisfy him in every way.

 

“I’m going to throw you through that window now,” Sam says casually, nodding towards a large bay window that dominates the long hall. “And once you’ve limped your shredded ass back into the library, you can tell Azazel I’ll be there in a second.”

 

Brady barely has time to be afraid, to nod, before Sam sends his meat suit hurling from the third story window.

 

Watching the window shatter under Brady's body, watching glass and skin and bone break, trips a glaring, obvious switch in Sam's brain. 

 

He calms himself. Closes his eyes, breathes the smell of blood and clean, country air, and grips his shuddering mind. When he opens his eyes again, he feels balance light and assured in his limbs, his chest, his gut. He finds the focus he had lost in Dean's skin and denial. 

 

His brother really is like the demons who crowd under Sam's feet. There were legions that scoffed blood at the thought of following Sam's lead, hordes that plotted against Sam's human heart and masses who refused to submit to stinking mortal flesh. Sam hadn't tried to  _reason_ with them. He had made them submit, twisted their souls and the bodies they possessed until their minds couldn't deny his power. He had sunk pain into their souls until their eyes could only see a leader, until their mouths could speak only submission. 

It had been ridiculous, he realizes now, to think he could bring Dean to the foot of his throne any other way. 

 

Sam strides back into the room, chest lighter, rage cooler and cock heavier. He has a bit more time with his brother after all, and he's not going to spend it trying to persuade Dean's mind. He's going to use his time wisely. 

 

“Looks like I don’t have to leave just yet,” Sam smirks. When he steps in front of his brother, he puts his hands on his knees and leans above Dean’s face. “In fact, I think I have just enough time to get you ready for when I get back.”

 

Dean doesn’t flinch from Sam’s hand on his jaw, but his muscles flutter and tense.

 

Sam decides to flex his own strength. He hasn’t thrown it around much, too busy teaching Dean about his true powers to include a lesson about how much he’s grown. Dean tenses.

 

He carries his shaking brother to the bed with a feeling of a peace, a spark of calm and triumph that heightens the fires of his lust. Dean is so sweet in his arms. He feels solid, too, muscles carved as much by demon blood as Sam’s own. The weight of it reminds Sam of the killer he holds, the bloodhound he’s going to unleash on the world who will only heel and roll over for him. Sam is giddy for it: for the sharpness of Dean’s eyes and the beautiful, snarling twist of his mouth when he sinks a knife in a monster’s heart and twists.

 

“That wasn’t really necessary, was it?” Dean huffs when Sam drops him on the bed. Even his ears are tinted pink (blood in the water, diluted and weak and lovely like Dean himself) and Sam can hear the embarrassment at being manhandled so easily by his baby brother pumping steadily alongside Dean’s horror.

 

“No,” Sam concedes, still grinning. “But it’s always fun to make you blush.”

 

Dean’s flush deepens.

 

This is what Sam has been after, and he almost sighs when he brings his thumbs to sweep the bruises on Dean’s throat. His beautiful brother submitting to him, all of his weakness and that single thread of strength finally bared for Sam instead of hidden.

 

He adds finding every way he can make Dean blush for him to the ever growing list of experiments he needs to execute on Dean's body. The mental list was long  _before_ Sam had even gotten a chance to lay a finger on his brother; now that he's sunk in so far, it's gotten even longer. 

 

When Sam leans down to kiss him, Dean’s hands flutter to his shoulders as if he can really combat Sam’s physical or mental or demonic strength.

 

“Can’t we just cuddle before you have to go?”

 

“We could, but that wouldn’t really help you out.” He ignores Dean’s shaking fingers and takes the kiss he was angling for. “See, when I get back, I’m gonna fuck you. I don’t think a few minutes of snuggling is going to prep you for that.”

 

When Sam kisses him again, his tongue meets the trembling seal of Dean’s mouth.

 

Dean is staring at him with as much terror and disgust as he held when Sam had threatened to choke him with his dick, as he held when Sam flicked Brady and his human host through the glass and onto the dead grass grounds.

 

“I’m not – ” Dean rasps, sounding pained, as if Sam never healed the wounds he inflicted. “I didn’t fight you. You don’t have to – I get it, okay, I fucking get it. You’re Damien. You’re the 666 and the freaky mind powers and the – I can’t fight you. I’m not going to. I – ” Dean bites his lip, eyes fluttering closed as tears gather in their corners. When he opens them, the iris has been ripped apart like a flower torn by blades. “I be – I belong – you’re the big dog around here, and I’m the.” He shakes his head.

 

Sam hears the words he can’t force himself to say (to believe):  _I belong to you, Sammy; you’re the Alpha and I’m the bitch; I’ll be good just please, please don’t touch me anymore; I won’t fight until I find a way to get us both out of this_.

 

Rage pools in Sam’s belly. (And how Dean can still play him hot and cold, make him calm then furious, despite how well Sam has managed to reign his emotions, is beyond Sam at the moment.) His first instinct is to rip the voice from Dean’s plush lying mouth, shove his power in it and leave Dean drooling and struggling and gasping for breath while Sam storms to the library.

 

All that’s going to do is strengthen all of those stupidly struggling thoughts Dean can’t seem to suppress.

 

Dean has to know this is Sam, has to see Sam’s power, has to knows he’s helpless against it. He _has_ to know he’s going to give in, not only because Sam is his master now, but because deep down Dean has to realize it’s better this way (because deep down Dean has to want this too). None of these facts have sunk into Dean’s pretty little head or his heart, they haven’t drenched his soul, and that’s where Sam needs that knowledge to pulse fierce and hard and forever.

 

Sam has laid the groundwork. He just has to anchor it.

 

Luckily, his tools are his hands. His mouth. His cock. Luckily he isn’t done with his exploration of Dean’s body and their new relationship. Every hot desire and every slick need burn and feed from one another.

 

“Don’t lie to me, Dean. I always know when you do.”

 

Dean’s expression twists, pained, and he takes a deep breath. “I’m not – ”

 

“If you finish that sentence with lying, I swear I’ll throw you just as fast out that window in the hall. This is the third story and I don’t think even you could handle that fall.” Sam smirks with no mirth, no joy, only ugly frustration. He wouldn't do it, not really, but he needs Dean to believe in Sam's new power and the lengths he's willing to go to train Dean, to keep him. “Not that I wouldn’t heal you afterwards so I could do it all over again.”

 

He rolls his brother onto his stomach, then, Dean’s protests shuddering ignored into the pillow.

 

Sam sweeps his eyes over his brother’s body. It looks different in the daylight, somehow, and Sam almost feels like it’s all new territory, like he needs to start his exploration all over again. His eyes catch on the small bruises peppered along the high curve of Dean’s ass. Patience threatens to leave him entirely.

 

Sweeping his hands over Dean’s back, Sam crawls on the bed so he can kneel over him. He doesn’t have the time to touch and taste Dean’s thighs like he wants to, like he wanted to last night, but he consoles himself with the thought that he has years for this; decades, centuries, millenniums to explore Dean’s body.

 

He smoothes his hand over Dean’s ass before delivering a quick, firm slap. It startles Dean, draws another of those precious high-pitched noises, and the red that blossoms in the wake of his hand is almost enough to distract Sam. The idea of spanking for pleasure had made him roll his eyes when he first realized it was a thing, but maybe it wouldn’t be that silly or ridiculous after all. Maybe it  _would_ be hot. He makes a mental note to devote more time to this later.

 

Dean is trying to struggle against the power Sam has in his skin as Sam forces him to spread his legs. Sam’s mouth dries inexplicably and his breath catches heavy in his throat as the center of his fantasies is revealed.

 

“Dean,” he breathes, overwhelmed and eager.

 

He has to close his eyes for a moment, inhale the scent of the changing air, revel in the absolute rightness of the moment.

 

He knows he doesn’t have much time. He’s not going to get Dean stretched all the way, but he can at least sink a finger inside. His cock twitches in his pants, beyond ready to slide into his brother’s body. He’s so god damn  _excited_ , eager and bouncing like a kid who can’t sit still long enough to be handed his present.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

He just wants to rip inside Dean, tear the paper off and get to the prize inside.

 

He runs his hand along Dean’s ass, middle finger rubbing light down the crease. Dean shudders, then  _shakes_ , when Sam presses the pad of his fingertip against his hole. It flutters hot and shy against Sam’s skin.

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Dean bites. “Sam, don’t you fucking  _dare_ – ”

 

Grinning, Sam sinks the edge of his nail inside. He has to bite his lip not to groan at the bone drenching heat, at the mind shattering  _tightness_. The thought flickers in his mind – he’s going to have his cock here by the end of the day – and he can’t stop the shaky, wild noise that leaves him.

 

He knows he’ll need lube. This is one place Dean has never let his girls go and Dean’s muscles are wound so damn tight, it would only be painful for both of them if Sam tried to sink in without it. He probably won’t even be able to get the length of one finger inside Dean’s burning body without something slicking the way.

 

He’s curious, though. How much can Dean take before he has to use lube? How far can he get before he has to slick his fingers?

 

Licking his lips, he pushes the tip of his middle finger through the petal pinkness of Dean’s hole. They both tremble.

 

“Stop,” Dean hisses. He tries to clench, keep Sam from sinking deeper, but it only makes the intense pressure around Sam’s finger burn brighter. “Stop, Sam, just – just – fuck, that –  _stop_.”

 

Sam can feel the slight sting of discomfort he’s causing Dean’s body. He eases his finger out. Dean sighs in relief. Sam sucks his own index finger into his mouth, coating it liberally. He can’t get far without anything slicking his path. Now he wonders how far he can slide with just spit easing the way, how deep he can get into Dean’s body using just his finger, just his saliva.

 

He brings the tip of his finger back to Dean’s hole. At the feeling of warmth from Sam’s skin, coldness from Sam’s spit, Dean shakes. He tries to kick his leg out, tries to dig his fingers into the mattress and pull himself away, but Sam coils power along every muscle before he can slide even an inch away from Sam’s finger.

 

“God _dam_ it, Sam, god fucking damn you little – ”

 

“Shh, Dean, stop,” Sam says, trying to sound calm and not like a sugar high toddler outside the gates of Disneyworld. The tone is unbecoming of Hell's Boy King. He uses the hand not resting on Dean’s ass to rub Dean’s smooth, strong thigh. He honeys his power to relax Dean’s body, make it sweet and open for him, and he honeys his words to ease the panic in Dean’s heart. He wants Dean to enjoy this, after all, and if Dean isn’t going to  _let_ himself, then Sam is going to  _make_ him. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just want a little taste.”

 

“No, please – “ Dean nearly chokes on the word. Sam can hear the protests in his brother’s head, can feel the humiliation at begging his little brother. “Please, Sam, just –  _please_.”

 

“This is happening, Dean. The more you fight it, the sillier you’re gonna feel once you finally admit how much you want it.”

 

“I  _don’t_ ,” Dean insists, voice caught between a snarl and a whimper. He sounds so desperate, so delicate, so weak, Sam’s finger aches to be buried in it. His cock almost  _hurts_. “I’m never gonna – I’ll do what – fuck, whatever you want, just – ”

 

Sam clogs the words with a thought. He doesn’t understand why Dean is fighting this so much harder than he fought anything else, but he doesn’t have the time to deal with Dean’s hang-ups or fear or denial right now. He only has a few minutes before Brady limps back to the door to bring him to Azazel’s meeting.

 

He slides his index finger into the first knuckle, then stops. He doesn’t move, barely breathes, just soaks in the sensations of Dean hot and slippery and more perfect than he ever imagined around him.

 

“So tight,” Sam rasps. “Jesus, Dean. So  _fucking_ tight. Gonna need to work you open good before I can get my cock in you.” Dean whimper-whine-screams around the power in his mouth. Sam can hear, can  _feel_ , the frantic  _no-no-no-please-Sammy-no_ beating hard in his head. “Shh, Dean. Gonna feel so good, so damn good for both of us.”

 

Sam sweeps his finger around, a circling motion, shallow but incredible. He wriggles his finger deeper, panting as he slides and discovers more of Dean’s molten core.

 

“You’re gonna feel so sweet around my dick,” he groans.

 

Dean tries to tell Sam again he doesn’t want this, neither of them do. Sam leans forward to lick and nip at Dean’s shoulder blade, silencing the silent protests.

 

“Gonna make you scream, make you cry, stretch you so wide and fill you so full, you won’t be able to think of anything else.” It’s a promise, a fact of the near future, he whispers into Dean’s spine. Sam moves his mouth, tasting as much skin as he can as he pushes his finger half way inside. “You won’t remember anything but how fucking good it feels to have my cock in you.”

 

 _No_. The word is a denial and a plea, pushed into Sam’s mind with so much fierce desperation it reverberates through Sam’s entire body.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” he pants against Dean’s back. “It’s going to be so – ”

 

The knock Sam has been expecting comes then, cutting him off mid-sentence.

 

“Samuel,” a dry voice rasps from the other side. “My K-King. Azazel will…” A wheeze, a bloody cough Sam can hear through the door falls. “…s-s-see you now.”

 

 “Two minutes,” Sam calls.

 

His voice comes out breathier than he means, but he can’t help it. His finger is buried completely inside of Dean now and his head, his heart, can’t stop pounding painfully in time with his cock.

 

He kisses his way from Dean's shoulder to his ass. When he sinks his teeth in the curve, Dean makes a small pained noise and twitches, unconsciously clenching tighter around his finger.

 

Sam eases himself from Dean. The skin of his finger pulses hot like a wound, beats red like blood. He licks his lips.

 

It’s easy to channel a funnel of power to unfurl, curl against Dean’s fluttering hole. It takes a little more concentration to push a materialized glob of slick through Dean’s ass, but Sam can do just about anything he sets his mind and demon tainted blood to.

 

Dean makes a soft, confused noise against the clog of Sam’s power. Sam can feel the shiver he sends through Dean’s body as he rubs warm lube and even warmer intent against Dean’s slowly widening hole, against the spasm hot glide of Dean’s ass. He can feel the strangeness, the awkward but undeniable good-ah-good spreading through his brother’s body.

 

“This will get you ready,” Sam tells him, tone gentle and voice firm. “Get you loose and sloppy and hungry for me.”

 

He watches, mesmerized, as Dean’s rim stretches to accommodate the invisible girth of Sam’s power. It’s a slender tendril, just enough to get Dean used to the sensation, only slightly wider and longer than Sam’s finger. Sam can thicken it while he’s downstairs, concentration focused on his brother’s ass, widening and loosening, changing so it can swallow Sam’s cock hole, while Azazel and the others plot the seals to break.

 

Sam leaves his brother trembling as he walks to the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam can't wait. Luckily, he doesn't have to.

It takes two demons to spread the map smoothly over a rich Oriental rug. Seals dot the map, deep and red like a light spray of blood. Sam’s eyes follow the pattern they make. He can close his eyes and imagine that same pattern on Dean’s skin.

 

“We should go with Samhain.”

 

“It would be easy for the Angels to stop,” one of the demons flanking Azazel’s side says. “All they have to do is decimate the entire town.”

 

Sam frowns. “Angels,” he says, slowly. “Would just destroy thousands of lives like that?”

 

The demons exchange looks, smirking as if they’re trying not to laugh, as if they know something Sam doesn’t.

 

Irritated, Sam drops his hand heavily on the map. “Then losing that seal will be even worse for them. If it would be so easy to stop us, then it will show them exactly how weak they are when they can’t.”

 

Azazel smiles like a proud father.

 

-

 

The meeting doesn’t last long. Preparations are being made and demons are needed across the country, gathering information on seals, rounding up meat suits, destroying angel vessels before angels have a chance to wear them.

 

Sam’s mind never leaves the image of his brother spread on the bed, Sam’s power pushing and prodding his hole so it will be wet and wide and ready for Sam as soon as he gets back. He closes his eyes, focuses, and pushes another tendril into Dean.

 

By the time he leaves, there are three honey hot, slow sliding pulses stretching Dean out.

 

Sam practically runs from the library when Azazel dismisses them.

 

-

 

Dean is kind of a mess when Sam gets back.

 

Tears are streaming down his face, staining the pillows and his cheek. The green and white winter of his eyes have been swallowed by summer red. The tremors of his tremors are shaking. As Sam walks forward, he can see the stretch of Dean’s rim, darker than it was when he left and glistening with lube.

 

“Hey sweetheart,” Sam breathes as he slides his map copies on the floor. “I’m home.”

 

He leans over and licks at Dean’s tear soaked, tear warmed cheek. It’s salt and sweetness. Sam savors the taste as it glides to the back of his tongue.

 

“Did you miss me?” he asks, brushing damp lips along Dean’s ear. 

 

Dean trembles.

 

He eases his power from Dean’s lips. His brother takes deep, shuddering breaths and Sam wonders if those are the sounds he will pull from Dean’s mouth when he finally fucks him. He’ll find out soon. He bites his lip.

 

Dean twists his head so he can float pained, dazzling eyes towards Sam’s face. He looks betrayed and angry, skittish like a colt and bloodthirsty like a vampire who’s only been draining sewer rats for the past month. He’s gorgeous.

 

“G-get,” Dean pants. He tries to growl, hiss, but his voice is dry with disuse and his throat is wet with sorrow. The word comes out breathy, whimpering and simpering and going straight to Sam’s aching cock, which never really softened or eased. “Get what-whatever fuckin’ mojo this is outta me. Get it out now.”

 

Sam just grins. He licks the side of Dean’s mouth, presses a kiss there, before he starts popping the buttons of his shirt.

 

Dean closes his eyes. “Please,” he says softly, gritting his jaw at the plea. “Please, Sammy, I – I get it. Y-you’re in charge. I’m not gonna fight – I won’t. Just. Please. Please don’t.”

 

Sam drops his shirt to the floor. A soft sound echoes through the room as the fabric rustles, making Dean flinch. 

 

"I was gonna wait," Sam admits as he pops the button of his jeans. "There are so many other things I want to try with you, but I can always do them later. Not like I'm going to run out of time." His jeans pool at his ankles. Dean glances at him for only a moment before being startled by his state of undress. With a clenched jaw, Dean pushes his face back into a pillow. The move is adorable; frustrating, but adorable, and Sam is smiling as he walks to the edge of the bed. "Come on, big brother. Don't be like that. You were never shy around all the sluts you brought home."

 

"Is this - " Dean begins. He tightens his hands into the pillow. Sam glides his hand over Dean's sweat slick, shaking shoulder. "Are you trying to prove something with this, Sammy?"

 

Sam rolls his eyes as he trails his fingertips over Dean's spine. His fingers glide over Dean's skin, wet and golden, liquid silk. "Obviously."

 

Dean laughs, humorless and bleak. "So what? This is my punishment for getting some while you - "

 

The words trail off in a sharp gasp as Sam presses his fingertips, his nails, harshly into Dean's back. 

 

"This isn't punishment," Sam whispers, low and dark. "This is my reward. You have no idea how hard and how long I've had to work to get here, Dean, and you're my reward for getting this far. My incentive to keep going."

 

Dean shakes his head, trying to spew words, but Sam ignores the sounds falling from his brother's lips. Instead he slides his hand lower, lower, lower, until he has two fingers circling Dean's stretched hole. 

 

"No," Dean hisses, trying to cant his hips away from Sam's probing fingers. "You've made your fucking point, so just - "

 

"Clearly I haven't," Sam says, amused. His eyes, his attentions, are drawn deeply to Dean's warm, wet, pulsing center. "The point I'm making here, Dean, is that you belong to me. I can do anything with you, to you, and I'm going to. You have no idea how many things I want to learn about your body, how many things I want to do to it."

 

He's circling Dean's hole with two fingers, not pushing in, drawing out the torture for both of them. 

 

Moments pass and Sam's patience wears ragged and thin. He really was going to wait, fuck Dean with every one of his fingers, then try two, three, four, five, fill Dean with his tongue and any toy he could imagine before finally sinking his cock inside. But he's  _been_ waiting, waiting for what feels like centuries, and he's sick of it. He's sick to death and Dean is the only thing that can revive his war hammer heart. 

 

He presses to fingers inside his brother's body and it's Heaven, only sweeter, only more beautiful and more perfect. He groans loud and wild as his fingers slide through the slick heat of Dean's ass, right down to the hilt. 

 

"Sam," his brother cries, ragged, desperate, pained. "P-please, I'm - I'm yours, God, God damn, I promise, stop - "

 

Stretching, Sam's chest brushes Dean's back as he moves his lips against the soft shell of Dean's ear. 

 

"The point I'm making," he whispers hotly against Dean's skin. "Is that I get what I want now, bro, and I want you in every way possible."

 

"No, no, n-no - "

 

Sam stills his brother's violent shakes, but leaves his voice. He likes the way it trembles when he thrusts and circles his fingers, likes the way it hitches when he finally pushes deep and hard and at just the right angle to send a sharp jolt of pleasure through Dean's skin. 

 

He sucks Dean's earlobe into his mouth, flicking his tongue along it, swirling the terror sweat into his mouth while he pulls his fingers out of Dean's ass. He wants to feel Dean take three of his long fingers, wants to see Dean stretched around him. Dean whimper-whine-moans as Sam pushes inside again. They both shudder. 

 

"Fuck, Dean, you feel..." 

 

Sam can't even find the words to describe the sensation of rubbing his fingers  _inside_ of his brother's body. It's like brushing his skin along velvet, crushed and squirming, hotter than blood, against him. It's almost like burying every part of himself, head to shoulders, chest to thighs, under Dean's skin, under his muscle. It's like he's breathing through Dean's lungs, feeling through Dean's nerves. It's like he's home. 

 

He keeps kissing, licking and nipping every inch of skin he can get it. He wants to replace his fingers with his cock, but he's almost hesitant to move. Suddenly the thought of leaving Dean empty, even for the amount of time it takes to slide his fingers from Dean's ass and slide his cock in, sends a shiver through him. 

 

Maybe he can wait. Just fuck Dean with his fingers until neither of them can stand it, until Sam turns and rubs his dick against Dean's thighs, until he finally comes and they can start all over again. 

 

Sam concentrates on the sounds Dean makes when he circles his fingers, twists them just so, pushes in deep then deeper. He wants to know what hurts, what feels good, what's going to make Dean moan, scream, cry. He wants to know what's going to make Dean come when he finally lets him. 

 

A soft, barely audible groan spills into the room when Sam flicks his wrist, dragging his fingertips against the molten give of Dean's ass. 

 

Sam's grin could cut demons to shreds. 

 

"That good, Dean?" he breathes, making the same motion. Dean tries to shake his head, but another weak sound of pleasure leaves him. He tries to bite his lip to stop himself, but Sam leans in, wraps his own teeth around Dean's plush lower lip and pulls. "Uh-uh, big brother. No keeping quiet. I want hear how good I make you feel."

 

Trembling, Dean raises his neck enough to shoot him a glare. "That's not m-me, you sick - ah - sick fuck. I don't know - wh-what you're doing, but that's not - ah,  _ah_ \- "

 

"It is." Sam closes his eyes to focus on finding that pleasure-shock bundle of nerves. It takes a few moments, thrusting and twisting, but he finally, finally moves his fingertips against it. They both groan, but the noise Dean makes is deeper, longer, more horrified and satisfied. "See?"

 

It's always been in the plans for Dean to enjoy this, want this, want him. It's always been in the plans to make Dean fall apart in pleasure at his hands. Sam had no idea, though, when he was making his plans, that pulling those sounds from Dean's mouth would be so instantly and deeply addictive. He's going to have to make Dean groan like this every day.

 

He presses against the spot again. Again. Again and again until Dean's thoughts stop beating  _not my brother, not me, don't let this thing make me feel this, concentrate_. He rubs Dean's prostate and sucks at the violently fluttering pulse in Dean’s neck. He feels it the moment Dean accidentally relaxes against him, hears it the moment Dean's pleasure starts vibrating through his brain.

 

 _Fuck_ , he hears Dean think, panicked and pleasured in his mind.  _No, no, fuck - fuck, Sam -_

 

The sound of his own name in Dean's head, the feeling of Dean's little submission, breaks the dam holding Sam back. 

 

He kisses Dean, sliding his tongue through trembling but unresisting lips. When he pulls back, Dean is watching him with glazed eyes. Sam smiles, soft and hungry, and kisses his cheek. His entire body thrums, so damn  _eager_ it's almost ridiculous, as he re-positions himself. 

 

"Wait," Dean pants as Sam straddles him. Sam ignores the protest. He watches the way his fingers sink obscene into Dean's body, watches the way Dean's ass clenches and swallows them like his brother's body has been starving for this as deeply as Sam's has. "Wait, Sam, c'mon, just - just - "

 

"Done waiting, Dean," Sam rasps as he finally eases his fingers away. 

 

"I'll do anything," Dean mutters, clenched and quick and desperate. "I swear, I'll do anything, I promise, just don't do this. Whatever you want, I'll - "

 

Sam leans forward, licking Dean's back before he speaks. "What I want is for you to be good for me and push up on your hands and knees. What I want is for you to scream for me, Dean, and just fucking take it like I know you want."

 

" _No_ , Sam. No, I can't."

 

"You can." Sam maneuvers Dean's body, using his power to push Dean's shoulders down and his hips up, offering that sweet, slick ass like the sacrifice Sam's kindness deserves. "See?" Perfect, Sam wants to say, you're perfect for me. He can't offer praise for being unable to fight his power, though, and he can't let Dean see his softness until Dean has finally succumbed to all of his.  

 

"Sammy." It's a whispered whimper, soft and cradled with tears. " _Sammy_ ,  _please_. I'm your brother. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to us."

 

Sam pauses.

 

He'd been sliding the leaking, aching head of his cock along Dean's ass, but Dean's voice suddenly makes him wonder if maybe hands and knees isn't the best position. He'd read that it was the least painful for the partner on the bottom and provided the best tilt for the partner on top to find the prostate, to make it the most pleasurable. He had always planned to try this with Dean spread and positioned so perfect for him, but now that he's here, dick sliding along that hot spot it longs to be buried, he thinks he wants to see Dean's face. 

 

The more he ponders it, the more he realizes that yes,  _fuck yes_ , he wants to see Dean's face. He wants to see the way Dean's eyes widen and spark when he finally pushes home. He wants to taste Dean's mouth while his cock devours Dean's body. He wants to look down at his brother, smile wide and dimpled and lustful if Dean attempts to protest.

 

It only takes a gentle flick of power to roll Dean onto his back. Dean's eyes are shut, trembling with the effort to keep them closed, and a trickle of tears shine at the edges. His neck moves as he swallows hard and Sam's eyes track the movement, lingering over the bruises still littering his throat. Sam sweeps his gaze down his brother's chest, to the trembling muscles of his stomach, to the jut of his half-hard cock. Sam smiles. 

 

He brings his hand to smooth Dean's sweat matted hair. He traces Dean's face, brushes his fingers over Dean's lips, then follows the line of possession he laid with his gaze. He brings both hands to Dean's chest so he can swipe those sensitive nubs with both thumbs. Dean shudders. His hands fly to Sam's forearms, gripping tight, trying to halt his movements. Sam ignores the way his brother's fingers tremor on his skin as he continues sweeping his touch downwards. 

 

He only touched Dean's cock once, and he's not going to pay it much attention now, but he does want to feel it against his palm again. He circles the head with the heel of his hand, heart and breath speeding at the silken heat. When Dean has finally learned his place, Sam thinks he might actually enjoy jerking him off, licking him up, making him come. 

 

"Wrap your legs around me," Sam tells him. "Shift your hips up."

 

" _No_ ," Dean says sharply. He won't open his eyes. 

 

"Dean," Sam hisses, impatience creeping into his blood. 

 

"Sam," his brother says, mimicking his tone before laughing weak and breathless. "Just use your special Hell bitch boy powers to make me."

 

Glaring, Sam wraps his hand around Dean's thigh. He digs his fingers into the muscle until Dean grimaces. "Fine. We'll do it however you want, Dean."

 

"I don't want it at all," Dean growls. He finally snaps his eyes open, fury storming in their depths, and glares. 

 

"I liked it better when you were begging," Sam says as he wraps his power around Dean's ankles and brings them around his waist. It feels so good, the slide of Dean's hot skin against his, the gentle pressure of them clinging to his body. " _Please, Sam, please_..." he murmurs."Why don't you try that again?"

 

"Fuck - "

 

 _you_ , Dean was going to snarl, but Sam doesn't give him the chance. He lifts his brother's hips, tightens his brother's hold on him, and presses the head of cock to the blistering heat of his brother's body. 

 

He groans low in his throat as Dean's ass stretches and clings to the blunt head of his cock. It feels different than Dean's mouth, his throat, around his dick, and so much better than when it was just Sam's fingers thrusting into the heat.

 

Part of him wants to just slide in, sink to the hilt and start taking immediately. But the more rationale side of his brain reminds him he will only get one time to fuck Dean for the first time, and he wants to savor it. He has enough time to take Dean every way he's imagined, to experiment with positions and angles and speed, but it is only in this moment that he has the chance to learn Dean's body, learn the way it makes him feel, for the first time. 

 

Dean's mouth hangs open, heavy and wet, twisted in pleasure-pain as the head of Sam's cock presses his hole wide. His eyes are still closed and his face is still tense, thrown to the side and pressed into the pillow. It's exactly the picture Sam thought he would paint this first time but it's infinitely more satisfying to see it. 

 

Slowly, achingly and painfully slowly, he pushes his hips forward and feeds another inch of his dick into Dean's too-hot-too-tight-too- _good_ body. 

 

"Damn," he pants, licking his lips as he circles his hips. Dean's heat drenches him. He thinks his cock, his heart, might burn to ash buried inside of Dean like this, but in the moment he can't care. "God _damn_." 

 

Another press, another moan, another dizzying wave of pleasure crashing hard into his chest and leaving him unable to breath. He's always known, always imagined, how incredible it would be to finally have Dean like this, but his imagination was a poor, pitiful painter. No amount of fantasizing about or planning for this moment could have prepared him for the intensity, the rightness, of it. 

 

Sam doesn't know how much time passes before he's finally fully inside. He's lost in the sensations of heat and tightness. The breathy sounds of Dean's discomfort and desire make his head spin. The way Dean's mouth twitches and he moves his head from side to side making his eyes roll. 

 

He could stay here  _forever,_ he thinks, dazed. 

 

"Sam," his brother pants, voice wet with fear and shaken with confusion. Trembling arms slide to Sam's shoulders, fingertips sinking into the muscles, trying pitifully to push him away. "S-Sammy."

 

A smile twitches on Sam's lips. He leans down, pressing a kiss to slack lips. "Open your eyes, Dean. Look at me."

 

Dean shakes his head, clenching his eyes and jaw shut. Sam laughs softly, because Dean is so cute when he's petulant, so adorable when he's trying to deny how good it is for both of them to have Sam's cock buried deep inside of him. Sam isn’t even angry.

 

"C'mon, big brother. Open your eyes. C'mon."

 

Dean shakes his head again. "F-fuck you," he pants. 

 

"Fuck  _you_ ," Sam counters easily, rolling his hips, moving for the first time since he finally slid home. The movement sparks pleasure so deep along his nerves he has to stop immediately to catch his breath.

 

Dean gasps, fingers scraping against Sam's flesh as he twists his head. "Stop," he demands, weak and soft and so beautiful Sam has to kiss him again. 

 

Sam makes another shallow thrust, moaning into Dean's mouth as he does. He can understand why people murder for this, why they fight wars and destroy their own souls. This is the best physical sensation he's ever felt. There are even tendrils of pleasure, squirming, touching places of his soul he thought were dead. 

 

"Open your eyes," Sam demands again when he pulls away from the kiss. 

 

"Get - ah - get  _out_ ," Dean pants in response. 

 

"Look at me," Sam repeats. He moves his hips, thrusts still gentle and slow, still savoring the feeling of Dean's body opening for him for the first time. "C'mon."

 

"M-make me, you sick fu-  _uh - uck_." 

 

Dean's curse mutates into a soft groan as Sam picks up his pace. He grins wide, pumping in and out with short but steady motions.

 

When Dean opens his mouth again, thinking he has the control to speak, Sam pulls out a fraction more then pushes back in faster, deeper. The startled noise that falls from Dean's lips tumbles down their bodies, latching onto Sam's hips and yanking them even harder into his brother's body. Sam's own groan is half-wild, half-shocked, because he didn't think this could get any better, but the sound of Dean's pleasure, the feeling of it buzzing in his muscles, even dampened by his utter horror and disgust, ratchets the intensity from heavenly to out of the fucking dimension. 

 

Sam can't imagine what it's going to be like when Dean is a more willing participant. When Dean will meet the movement of his hips, when Dean will stretch forward to kiss him, when Dean will touch and taste him back. 

 

"Come  _on_ ," Sam pants, pulling until almost half of his cock is out of the warmth of Dean's body. It aches immediately to be back inside. He pushes in faster, harsher than he meant to, eager to get that clinging wet heat back, and it feels so damn good he does it again. Dean's head lulls to the side, bobbing slightly as Sam fucks him faster, harder, better. Dean's lips part, weak and yielding to the force of the pleasure Sam is making him feel, and a moan of unabashed, sheer pleasure spills thick and hot like blood between them. "Open - Dean, come on, come  _on_."

 

Sweat is beading at his brow. His hair is damp when it frays against his forehead and the tips fall in his eyes. It blurs the beatific vision that is Dean getting fucked open on his dick, and Sam makes a frustrated noise that bleeds into a heavy moan when Dean bites his lip to keep from groaning again. 

 

When Dean is better, knows his place, Sam imagines his brother will push the hair from his face so they can look each other in the eye when they come. Dean will probably smirk, make some wise crack about his girly hair that he thinks is funny and Sam knows isn't. Sam will punish him for it, though, maybe spank him or pulls his nipples until he cries, maybe not let him come. He snaps his hips harder as the possibilities begin to overwhelm him. 

 

" _Look_ at me," Sam commands. He doesn't lace the word with power, because he wants Dean's conscious submission. He wants to see it, taste it, feel it clenching around his cock, feel it burrowing it's way into Dean's bones. He wants Dean to limp bowlegged and fucked out from their first time knowing his body belongs to Sam, knowing that his mind and heart are going to follow. He needs it. " _Dean_."

 

A burst of rage, stronger than the anger that has been a constant simmer in Dean's blood, surges through his brother. 

 

" _Fine_ ," Dean growls. 

 

His eyes snap open in time with the next deep movement of Sam's hips. His eyes are  _shattered_ , like someone shredded stained glass with wild claws and left the pieces in a frenzy. His eyes are  _beautiful_ , and Sam has the strangest urge to run his tongue across them, lap his tears and blood until he's swallowed those gorgeous, trembling colors, made them a part of himself. 

 

It's finally seeing Dean's eyes that drives Sam over the edge. He feels his orgasm building, feels it swirling like the emerald-jade-grass-green of his brother's eyes, feels it shaking his body like a god damn earthquake. 

 

"Dean," he groans. 

 

He leans in, sliding his tongue through Dean's panting mouth in a kiss that's too much teeth and hunger to be a kiss at all. He keeps his eyes open. Dean does, too. When Sam pulls out and pushes back in so hard it rattles the bed, Dean's eyes widen, tremors of vulnerability, weakness, desire, and terror bleeding through. Sam couldn't stop from coming even if he wanted to.

 

The feeling of spilling hot inside of Dean's even hotter body drags a ragged moan through his throat. He keeps pumping his hips as furiously as he can, pushing his come deep inside, branding his brother from the inside out. 

 

"Dean," he murmurs against Dean's cheek. His brother has closed his eyes again, but Sam is too exhausted to be angry. "Fuck, Dean."

 

They stay like that, Sam's lips pressed to Dean's face, Sam's cock softening inside the molten mess of Dean's ass, both of their heavy breathing filling the room. Dean's thoughts are frantic, a jumbled mess of guilt and horror, disgust and desire. Sam doesn't have the energy to sort through them; barely has the energy to move. He laughs a little; he didn't realize sex was going to be this exhausting. 

 

He doesn't really want to leave the perfection of Dean's body, anyway. He wants to stay buried deep until he gets hard and can fuck Dean all over again. 

 

His mind is foggy, heavy and hot like when he first started drinking demon blood, and it takes him several aching moments to realize he doesn't have to. 

 

"Dean," he repeats, an eager tilt to his voice that makes his brother tense and toss his head to the side. He huffs a laugh against the smooth, bruised column of Dean's throat. "Ready for round two?" 

 

"Oh Jesus Christ," Dean mutters. He sounds horrified, appalled, but mostly he sounds irritated, inconvenienced and annoyed by his little brother. It should make Sam angry, because Dean needs to learn it isn't his place to be anything but happy with what Sam gives him, but for some reason it makes Sam's heart pulse. "You're not serious."

 

Sam grins.

 

"Fuck you and your Lazarus dick, dude." 

 

" _With_ ," Sam teases, nipping Dean's collarbone. He thinks he'll add another line of bruises there. Dean's clavicle is strangely striking, delicate and beautiful, and Sam wants to mark it. In fact, he thinks he'll set aside a time to test which places on Dean's body are the best for biting, bruising. "Fuck you  _with_ my Lazarus dick."

 

Maybe it's the demon blood rushing back to his cock, or maybe it's just the feeling of Dean's ass slicker and hotter with his come, but Sam does start to twitch back to life. He circles his hips. 

 

"Not - " Dean begins, squeezing his eyes tightly as Sam begins to move. "Please, Sammy, come on, not - not again. Not yet."

 

"Sorry. I don't do requests." 

 

"Sammy!" Dean hisses when Sam hardens even further. "Sam, just  _stop_ for a fucking second, fuck."

 

Sam doesn't stop, of course; he couldn't even if he wanted to, which he most definitely doesn't. He wants to do this for the rest of his life. He smiles at the thought, because he can. He can do this as long as he wants.

 

He has all the time in the world. 


End file.
